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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25186333">In Defense of (Nec)romance: An Educator's Perspective</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime'>WingsOfTime</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Cats, Fluff, Light-Hearted, M/M, Oneshot, aftermath of a panic attack, estranged acquaintances to friends to What Are We, the real au is that roza and trahearne actually like their jobs amirite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:01:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,488</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25186333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Trahearne is a humble Orrian History professor who is just trying to learn how to use technology. If only that annoying sylvari (whom he is certain only comes here for the free coffee although it isn't even that good and he sort of looks like one of those pompous coffee snobs and Trahearne perhaps hates him a little despite never saying two words to him) would leave his library.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Trahearne/Male Player Character (Guild Wars)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In Defense of (Nec)romance: An Educator's Perspective</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>:O BIG thanks to my friend teeb for bouncing ideas with me!! ;3;; &lt;3 ok on to the clown show</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Trahearne is just trying to make a presentation.</p><p>It is not that he does not know <em>how</em> to work these… machines. He does. In theory. It is just that he is a traditional sylvari, and up until recently, there had been no need to change his methods. Until he had asked. But he is a good professor—or at least, he tries to be—and so he will listen to his students. Do 96% of them say would they prefer if lectures were accompanied by a digital visual aid? Then Trahearne will brave the murky, perilous depths of technology for them.</p><p>He squints at the screen, then tentatively pokes the “OK” button to close the prompt window that has popped up. The machine makes a whirring noise that dies out with a foreboding <em>click</em>, and the screen shuts off.</p><p>“No! No.” Trahearne jabs at it again anxiously, but to no avail. He gives the side of the machine a couple of firm thumps. Nothing happens.</p><p>“Brambles,” he mutters under his breath. He sinks into his chair, rolling back a few inches. Well, there goes his hour of very little progress.</p><p>He casts his gaze around the rest of the library, half-heartedly searching for an excuse to procrastinate even further. Perhaps someone else is lining up to use the machine right next to him, even though there is clearly no one within ten feet of him. Perhaps he should go and get—</p><p>Trahearne pauses. Sitting in the same spot as he always does, peacefully petting the library’s resident cat, Harley, is <em>that</em> white sylvari.</p><p>Trahearne watches through narrowed eyes as he takes a leisurely sip out of his drink without looking up. It is in a little disposable cup, like always, and, <em>like always</em>, Trahearne knows he will find it at the end of the evening carelessly tossed into the wrong bin (The library deciding it was going to allow coffee was, in his opinion, the beginning of the end. He had tried to protest, but had been quickly overruled with accusations of being “too traditional” and “unrealistically paranoid about the books” and “not caring about the well-being of students because apparently downing fifty gallons of caffeine a day is healthy and it’s the matter of whether they should have a <em>choice</em> that’s the real issue here.” Needless to say, he had lost, and now people are allowed to bring in drinks).</p><p>The sylvari stops petting Harley for a second to scroll down his tablet. Trahearne’s eyes narrow further. Harley is a <em>gift</em>, and she rarely accepts anyone; this sylvari should be grateful for the attention and at least do her the courtesy of keeping his own consistent. Why can’t he let go of his coffee? It isn’t even good. Those cups come from the station outside of the library—Trahearne knows the strain they use is terrible.</p><p>He gets up with a quiet, judgmental sigh. Perhaps he will fetch himself a cup, and it will give him the energy he needs to keep working.</p><p>He comes back, motivation still gone, terrible coffee in hand, and drags himself over to the machines. With some surprise, he notices that the one he had mistreated is perfectly functional once more, the library’s default screensaver displaying proudly across its screen. He reaches down to jiggle the cursor, and surely enough, it wakes up. Huh.</p><p>Someone else has logged in, and a writing program is open. Typed in bold in a very large font are the words:</p><p><strong>I have set up a premade presentation file for you to use because your aesthetic choices were giving me a headache.</strong> <strong>I hope the template is intuitive enough for even you to figure out. Save it to your device, not my account, please.</strong></p><p>
  <strong>- R</strong>
</p><p>Trahearne gapes at the screen, almost too shocked to be offended. Who had—? He jerks his head around, and his gaze automatically falls on the white sylvari.</p><p>He doesn’t seem to have moved from his spot. He isn’t watching Trahearne, nor does he seem like he has been, and for all intents and purposes he is innocent as can be.</p><p>Except Harley isn’t there anymore.</p><p>Now Trahearne knows his cats, and he even has partial ownership—every other week and weekends, because Sieran cannot be trusted alone—of this one. The only way to get her to move after she has decided that she wants you to pet her is to stand up and move yourself. Ergo, the sylvari had gotten up. Ergo, the obnoxious message in insultingly large font on Trahearne’s screen is from him.</p><p>Clearly. Trahearne clicks on the account menu to check the ID number just in case. He can look it up later. The first four digits, however, summon a frown. All student ID numbers begin with 0011, but this one begins with 0015—a staff number. The white sylvari is <em>staff?</em></p><p>Trahearne shoots him a surreptitious glance. No, he can’t be. What staff member comes into the library nearly every weekday for months in a row and does nothing but drink terrible coffee and frown at a screen (other than Trahearne, that is)? Besides, professors do not dress like <em>that</em>. They don’t make enough money.</p><p>The white sylvari probably isn’t this mysterious “R.” Trahearne swallows down an unexpected feeling of disappointment. It is strange—he would have said that the personality (or lack thereof) of the message fits his constructed ideal of him near perfectly, but it cannot be the case. That is what he gets for judging a plant from its bark.</p><p>Out of curiosity, he checks the presentation file before he logs off. It is… nice-looking. Several blank pages are already made, a few in different layouts for variety. Interest for the moment caught, he clicks through them, and finds that even without any content, the presentation looks well-prepared and neat. Empty boxes with visually pleasing placements tell Trahearne to “Type text here.” It is farther than he has gotten in his measly hour. He couldn’t even find where the themes were.</p><p>He sighs, and begrudgingly saves it to his data device.</p><p>~*~</p><p>“Really, it’s a lovely place, Brother. You could do with a small break before work.”</p><p>“Perhaps I could. But I do not trust that you don’t have ulterior motives, Caithe.” Trahearne scurries around the living room, checking behind chairs and underneath cushions for his coat. He had thrown it… somewhere, the evening before. Late night classes always muddle his mind. “Have you seen my coat?”</p><p>“It’s in the kitchen. And that’s quite an accusation! I’m offended.”</p><p>Caithe lays her chin over the back of the couch, watching him with bright eyes as he hurries past her with a muttered thanks. He fetches his coat from where he has—apparently hooked it on a cabinet handle. Of course.</p><p>“Who do you want me to meet at this coffee shop?” he asks as he searches through the pockets. His keys have magically disappeared from their usual spot, but they must be in here somewhere.</p><p>“No one!” Caithe’s protest comes too quickly. After a pause, “The… clientele simply consists of people who have their life together.”</p><p>Trahearne gives her a knowing look. “And…?”</p><p>“And?” She blinks at him innocently, then sighs. “Alright, <em>and</em> they would be good for you! You cannot blame me for having standards on your behalf, Trahearne. You need someone who will love you as well as whip your bad habits into shape.”</p><p>“I do not <em>need</em> anyone,” Trahearne says gently but pointedly. He considers for a moment turning the conversation to her own love life—as far as bad habits go, hers are worse than his—but dismisses it. Those are not always the safest waters through which to tread.</p><p>“It won’t hurt to give it a shot,” Caithe tries to reason. “You are already up early, and you do not have class for a while, right? Go and treat yourself to some breakfast.”</p><p>Trahearne has found his keys. “If I do, will you give me at least a week before pestering me about my love life again?”</p><p>“A week!”</p><p>“Caithe.” Another pointed look.</p><p>“Alright, fine. And I do not pester.”</p><p>“You do.” Trahearne sweeps on his coat, then goes over to give her a light peck on the cheek. “Fine, I will go. Stay as long as you like, as always, and don’t feed the cats. They're lying.”</p><p>“They always do. Take your time perusing, Brother! Find someone with a nice bottom.”</p><p>Trahearne’s cheeks heat. “I—will—most certainly not,” he blusters. He stumbles out the door to the sound of her light laugh.</p><p>The wind is brisk but not cold, and it makes the walk to the coffee shop pleasant. Trahearne had passed it a couple of times before but never entered; he had always thought it seemed like the type of place that would attract coffee snobs, and by the Mother Tree is <em>he</em> not a coffee snob. Certainly not. He prefers tea, and he only drinks the stuff because of societal pressure. White Sylvari is probably a coffee snob, he thinks, and snickers to himself.</p><p>His expression when he opens the door only to see that familiar yet unfamiliar sharply-dressed form—does he <em>always</em> wear black?—waiting in line is probably something that would be counterproductive to Caithe’s goal of getting him positive attention. Thankfully, no one is looking at him. Trahearne slinks into the line, wrestling with the odd urge to hide himself.</p><p>White Sylvari’s turn comes up. Trahearne tells himself he is not eavesdropping on his order to judge him. He is only playfully judgmental—it is for his own private amusement.</p><p>“Hello, good morning.” He is surprisingly soft-spoken. Trahearne had imagined his voice to be high-pitched and nasally, but it is in actuality lower than he would have expected from someone so short, and rather pleasant. “I am doing quite well, how are you? That is good to hear. May I have… ah, a jasmine chamomile, please. Black, small. Thank you.”</p><p>He pays, then stands in the waiting area, wrists neatly crossed in front of himself. Trahearne stares, feeling a little terrible for judging him. Firstly, he sounds terribly polite, but secondly and more importantly, <em>tea?</em> He drinks <em>tea?</em></p><p>The unfortunate thing about staring at someone is that they tend to notice. Without warning, he glances at Trahearne, and their gazes lock.</p><p>His eyes are pitch black and unflinching, and as soon as they make contact Trahearne feels as if they are sucking his soul from his body. He immediately looks away, clearing his throat.</p><p>The line moves and he follows it, not daring to look back up. He orders an overpriced panini, and is about to ask for coffee as well, but thinks of the nearby familiar stranger at the last second and changes his mind. A quick glance at the teas sticks his eyes on ginger lemongrass, which sounds… morning-y enough to be a sensible choice. He asks for a regular—he isn’t as tiny as White Sylvari is.</p><p>He pointedly does not notice when said sylvari collects his drink, nor does he notice the soft—and still polite, thorns—thanks he gives in return. Trahearne’s own order is ready soon after. He collects it and goes to sit at an empty table by a window, not looking to check if… anyone in particular has left yet.</p><p>He is biting into his panini—it is actually quite good, but still overpriced—when a dark form seats itself across from him. Trahearne looks up, covering his mouth, and stares into sharp black eyes.</p><p>White Sylvari taps two fingers against the side of his cup. “I know you,” he says.</p><p><em>Yes,</em> Trahearne agrees internally. <em>We sit in the same library for half the week and you’ve been the unwitting target of my mental aggravation since the beginning of last semester. But you don’t recycle, so can I really be blamed for it?</em></p><p>“You’re the one who was hitting that computer,” says White Sylvari.</p><p>A bit of tomato falls out of Trahearne’s mouth. He hurriedly cleans it up with his napkin, reaching for his tea to cover his blunder.</p><p>“Careful, it’s hot,” White Sylvari informs him.</p><p>Trahearne does not need to be told that his tea is hot. He takes a bold sip, and immediately burns his tongue.</p><p>“Told you.”</p><p>“Ah. Mm. I know, thank you.” Trahearne clears his throat, trying to clear the <em>I just burned my tongue</em> expression from his face. “And yes, that was… me.”</p><p>“You are saying it was indeed, and I haven’t been hallucinating your presence for months? That is grand. Did you use the template?”</p><p>Did he—? Trahearne stares. “What?”</p><p>White Sylvari gives him a look as if he is either very stupid or missing something incredibly obvious. Possibly both. “The presentation template I made for you. Did you end up using it?”</p><p>It <em>is</em> him. R <em>is</em> him. Now Trahearne has every right to be judgmental again! He wonders what the rest of his name is. “I did, actually, yes. Thank… you, I suppose.”</p><p>He is somewhat hesitant about admitting to it, less so out of principle and more so because of the fact that Tegwyn, one of his favourite students, had told him how nice his presentation looked, and oh she is so pleasantly impressed, and she is glad that he is stepping out of his comfort zone to accommodate students, and you see, you did very well indeed, and it wasn’t that hard! That had been at the halfway break. Trahearne had felt inexorably guilty for the rest of the seminar.</p><p>White Sylvari—or is it R now?—raises a flippant eyebrow. “You suppose? Well, I am glad I saved you from a failing grade, <em>I</em> suppose.”</p><p>“I’m a professor,” Trahearne defends automatically. He doesn’t say anything about the untold amount of rudeness he feels R had displayed. It is too bad his looks do not match his personality, and where had that thought come from? Thorns, Caithe’s influence is long-distance now.</p><p>R’s other eyebrow arches to join its pair. “You’re a <em>professor</em>, and you don’t know how to make a proper presentation file?”</p><p>Alright. “I didn’t need your help!” Trahearne takes another bite of his sandwich, because he is hungry, and it will get cold. “An’ tha’ was ver’ rude, the message y’left.”</p><p>“Ah, but you heeded it, did you not? Therefore, rude or not, it did its job.” R elegantly sips at his tea. Trahearne takes another bite so he has time to think of a comeback for that.</p><p>He is not very good at comebacks. “I… suppose,” he mutters again.</p><p>R gives him a smile that somehow manages to not be very kind at all. “Then I see no issue, Professor.”</p><p>“Trahearne,” Trahearne introduces, because they have technically known each other for four months, so he might as well.</p><p>For a second R goes still, and Trahearne briefly wonders if he recognizes the name—but no, he can’t, unless he is prone to reading necromancy journals in his spare time. Surely enough, the moment passes without comment.</p><p>“I teach an Orrian History seminar, which is my pride and joy, and a few necrology classes,” Trahearne continues.</p><p>R nods slowly, as if digesting that information. “I’m a researcher,” he replies, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. “Just came to uTrin this year.”</p><p>Trahearne is a little puzzled as to why he doesn’t introduce himself, but he doesn’t point it out. He is about to politely ask what field he is in, but R nods at his panini and says, “Those are horrid when they are cold. You had better finish it.”</p><p>Perhaps he would rather not discuss work, then. Understandable. Trahearne accepts the change in subject, and goes back to finishing his breakfast.</p><p>They sit in silence that is just a little uncomfortable. R sits still and proper, watching him in a manner that is frankly somewhat unnerving. Eventually, Trahearne excuses himself, since he has to go pick up Harley before his commute, and R moves once more with a small start.</p><p>“Yes,” he agrees, standing swiftly. “I will… see you later, Professor.” He is walking away and out of the shop before Trahearne can ask him to just call him by his name.</p><p>He shakes his head to himself. Caithe will be disappointed that he didn’t meet anyone, but at least he can say that he spoke with someone interesting.</p><p>~*~</p><p>“Have you ever tried the hot water?” Trahearne asks.</p><p>Laranthir slowly lowers his sandwich from his mouth. “The hot water?” he repeats, as if clarifying that Trahearne is indeed asking an inane question, or if it is his hearing that is off.</p><p>“Yes, from the drink machines. I thought it was only for people who were impatient enough to lower their standards for instant coffee, but I suppose if one comes in with their own teabag, it’s an ideal scenario.”</p><p>“Hm.” Laranthir crosses his legs with a considering expression. Trahearne dares a glance at the break room clock. He has ten more minutes.</p><p>Laranthir isn’t technically on duty until the night shift, but he likes showing up during the day sometimes to lend an extra hand to campus security. Every time this happens, Trahearne points out that he should be sleeping, but he only ever gets a friendly smile and a comment about his own habit of staying late at the university sometimes, which Laranthir’s position as head of Night Patrol makes him all too aware of. It is something Trahearne has yet to come up with a good counterargument for.</p><p>“I don’t see anything wrong with the idea of bringing your own tea,” Laranthir determines finally. “I avoid any kind of caffeine after dusk so as not to disrupt my schedule, but it seems smart.”</p><p>Trahearne leans closer to him. “I ask because there is this sylvari,” he begins. Laranthir unconsciously mirrors his posture. “He comes in to the library nearly every evening, and he always has a drink with him. I thought for the longest time that it was coffee, but this morning I ran into him at a café and he ordered <em>tea</em>. Now I am reconsidering everything.”</p><p>Laranthir frowns sympathetically. He understands why this is breakroom-worthy gossip, of course. “White bark, purple foliage, eyes that seem to suck out your soul?” he questions. At Trahearne’s eager nodding, he says, “Oh, that is just Roza.”</p><p>Trahearne blinks at him rapidly. Roza? That is a nice name. “You… know him?”</p><p>Laranthir dips his head in a nod. “He stays here late sometimes, like a certain professor.” A significant look, which Trahearne graciously ignores. “I can confirm he has tea, if it indeed is him you’re talking about. He does not like coffee; he thinks it is beneath him.”</p><p>Trahearne sputters in offense. “I—well, of course he would. You won’t believe what he… Wait, do you know him <em>well</em>?”</p><p>Laranthir, who is taking the pauses in conversation as opportunities to eat his lunch, shrugs, chews, and swallows. “Well enough,” he replies. “Sometime at the start of the year, I found him in the archives after midnight. I asked him how he got in. He said he had a key, and I wanted to know why, so we chatted for a bit. Nowadays, whenever he stays over late, I escort him to his car. It <em>is</em> my job.”</p><p>Laranthir’s job is to provide safe escort to students and staff members after dark, should they ask. Classes do not run into the night, so he mostly wanders around and checks to see if anyone is still working in the laboratories or research rooms. It is not his job to <em>berate</em> them for it, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from doing it to Trahearne.</p><p>“What does he do?” Trahearne asks, because ‘Roza’, apparently, had not told him. “He only told me he is a researcher, but I never saw him before this year.”</p><p>“He is. He came in highly recommended from Synergetics, from what I know. He didn’t tell me that, I had to ask admin.”</p><p>“He graduated from <em>Synergetics</em>?” Trahearne says in disbelief. Those are high qualifications, especially for a non-asura. He thought all he did was drink bad coffee and frown. “Why is he here, then? Is he transferring?”</p><p>Laranthir gives him a shrewd look. “He is independent. Our school is known for its research in a certain field. You of all people should know what that is, Professor Tenured.”</p><p>Necromancy. Trinity University is known for its research on necromancy, to the academically savvy. It is necrology to anyone else, but to those who dig a little deeper… the knowledge and secrets of the dark arts are well known to be locked inside its walls. Trahearne is well known to be a master of them.</p><p>Which also means…</p><p>“He <em>did</em> recognize my name,” Trahearne realizes. “That’s why he got so quiet. He probably read my…”</p><p>He trails off. Oh, that is a little embarrassing. Of course, the goal of publishing academic papers is to have them seen, but Trahearne wrote some of them <em>years</em> ago. He winces. “Do you think he read my thesis?” he asks Laranthir, who is looking at him very patiently.</p><p>“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him, next time you see him?” Laranthir stands up and walks over to the coffee machine. “I think it is likely. He really is quite passionate about his research—I’m surprised he didn’t tell you much.”</p><p>“All he did was insult me.” Trahearne is still a little miffed about that.</p><p>Laranthir pours the carafe with a laugh. “That sounds like him. He’s a bit prickly at first, but he doesn’t mean anything by it, and once you get to know him he is a loyal friend. His critiques come from a place of care.”</p><p>“They seem like they come from a place of rudeness.”</p><p>Laranthir grins. “That too.”</p><p>Trahearne has a class soon. He asks Laranthir to pour him a cup, and is about to take it when he comments, casual as can be, “He’s single, you know.”</p><p>Trahearne stares at him. The only two possible responses he can think of to that are ‘How do you know?’ and ‘Why are you telling me?’, and he doesn’t particularly want to know the answer to either question.</p><p>“We’re all single here,” he mutters in reply, accidentally dumping an extra sugar packet into his cup.</p><p>“So single that we guess at things like what kind of drink the mysterious good-looking stranger who comes to the library at the same time we do has, and then pester a mutual friend about him for ten minutes?”</p><p>Trahearne looks at him. Laranthir holds his gaze over the rim of his cup, sipping smoothly.</p><p>Thorns, he is as bad as Caithe sometimes. “I’m getting you fired for eyeing up a co-worker,” Trahearne grouses.</p><p>“I have never ‘eyed him up,’ don’t worry. But I did check the rules on that—purely out of random forethought and with no one in particular in mind, of course—and technically, since he <em>is</em> independent—”</p><p>“I have a class,” Trahearne interrupts loudly. He presses a lid over his cup, grabs his bag, and only glances back once to Laranthir’s grin and cheerful wave before leaving.</p><p>~*~</p><p>That evening when he goes to the library, he walks right over to the table Roza is sitting at, pulls out a chair, and drops his bag next to it.</p><p>Roza looks up slowly, pen poised. He is writing on something, but Trahearne cannot see what, since most of it is blocked by a small den of books and paper piles. “Ah. Hello, Professor.”</p><p>“Good evening,” Trahearne greets. He is single, he thinks as he observes the careful, precise way in which he holds his pen. It is not something he should be dwelling on, but it is, and he blames Laranthir. “I hope you don’t mind the company?”</p><p>“Not at all.” Roza lifts one stack of papers, moving them to another pile to give Trahearne room to put his things. “If you will excuse the mess, that is. I did not expect anyone to join me—you usually sit over there.”</p><p>He nudges his chin in the direction of Trahearne’s usual spot. So he notices where <em>he</em> sits as well. That is good. That is… something. But no, Trahearne isn’t truly interested in him, despite certain people’s pestering. He has eyes and he will use them, but they have barely said two words to each other, and what they have exchanged is hardly worth asking for a phone number.</p><p>“Really, you can call me Trahearne,” he assures. “And what is your name? I’m afraid I didn’t catch it earlier today.” There is no way he is admitting to his conversation with Laranthir.</p><p>“Oh.” Roza looks surprised. “Apologies. Roza.”</p><p>He extends a spindly hand. Trahearne notes the way his bark is peeling at the knuckles—he must pick at it—and shakes it.</p><p>“You never did tell me what it is exactly you are researching, Roza,” he offers with a smile.</p><p>Roza’s lips quirk into a small smile of their own. “Necrology,” he says, and winks.</p><p>Thorns, he should not be allowed to do both of those things in combination. Trahearne is happily single, he tries to tell himself once more. It is better that way. Dating always ends in disaster, he knows only too well. From… secondhand accounts.</p><p>“I happen to know a little bit about necrology myself.” Trahearne leans forwards. “You can elaborate.”</p><p>That look of surprise returns, and then shifts into tentative interest. “There are… ways in which certain fields of magic combine with each other.” Roza traces a diagram onto the table with his forefinger to illustrate his words. “I am sure that you are aware of what I speak. The asura call it the Eternal Alchemy. All six primordial forces connect to each other, and they interact in such a manner that they manifest each other as their strengths and weaknesses. Is this known to you?”</p><p>That is recent research—within the past half dozen years, in fact (Perhaps his team is the one that had discovered it, and that is why he has so much money, Trahearne jokes to himself. Hah, as if someone like that would come do research here! See, he still has a sense of humour). He nods.</p><p>“Perfect. I will not elaborate on that, then.” Roza gives him a sharp grin. “What <em>I </em>am looking at is the intersection of two of these forces: prismatic—or crystal, as some call it—and, ah, necrology.”</p><p>“You’re a mesmer?” Trahearne asks.</p><p>Roza lazily flicks his wrist, and shadows slither out from his sleeve, slowly crawling over his hand. “No.”</p><p>He closes the hand into a fist. The shadows seep into it and vanish. “You see, necromancy does not only have to be about death. It can be about darkness. About obscurity, or the dark thoughts we do not want to dwell on. Where do our nightmares come from? Why is there power in fear? <em>That</em> is my area of expertise.”</p><p>“Interesting.” Trahearne means it. His studies for the most part focus on death and rebirth—such as that kind of magic was used in the lost kingdom of Orr. “You do not work with the dead, then?”</p><p>Roza’s eyes glitter. “Oh, I do.”</p><p>He shows Trahearne what he has laid out on the table in front of him, pointing out the different journals and what fraction of information they each offer that interests him. His list is rapid-fire, but very thorough, and Trahearne gets the impression that he has high standards for even the baseline of his own research.</p><p>“This is all fascinating. I do wish you well with your work.” Trahearne truly is impressed. He hadn’t been able to mentally connect Roza to the College of Synergetics earlier, but now it is easy to see the spark of one of its graduates in his eyes.</p><p>Roza chuckles. “I am glad you think so. Most people think it is creepy.”</p><p>“Perhaps it is. But even creepiness has to be explored, does it not?”</p><p>“It does.” Roza gives him an approving look. “It is nice to meet someone who understands. I will admit I simply thought you were a doddery old sylvari who was scared of technology, but you are… clearly not.”</p><p>“I am old only for a sylvari.” Trahearne gives him a disarming smile. “Actually, I myself have published some writings that might interest you, even if the ones from twenty years ago are a little outdated now. I can grant you access, if you would like to look.”</p><p>“Ah.” Roza’s cheeks tinge a silvery gold. “I am… aware of all you have written. Or at least, I was since you told me who you were this morning. But thank you.”</p><p>He glances away, and Trahearne smiles internally. That answers that question, then.</p><p>“Do you regret—”</p><p>“Telling a firstborn and one of the most well-renowned necromancers in Tyria that his technological skills are terrible? No,” Roza fires instantly. He shoots him a shrewd look. “Because they are. I think had you made that presentation by yourself, you would have stripped your students of their braincells for every minute they had to look at it.”</p><p>Trahearne gapes at him. Roza holds his gaze for a few more seconds, then laughs. It is a surprisingly pleasant sound, small and not as callous as Trahearne would have expected. It is still rude, though.</p><p>“It would not have been that bad,” he protests. “I did not need your… meddling.”</p><p>“No one forced you to save the file,” Roza reminds him, wiggling his pen between his thumb and forefinger.</p><p>“I felt peer pressured by the insulting message you left on my screen,” Trahearne mutters. Roza grins, and he sighs. “You are not going to apologize for that, are you?”</p><p>“Not at all.” The grin stays.</p><p>Trahearne supposes it <em>did</em> do the trick, and Roza <em>did</em> choose to help out of his own volition. Still. It is the principle of the thing.</p><p>Roza gives a little start, and peers down underneath the table. “Oh, <em>hello</em>,” he says in a jarringly docile voice.</p><p>Harley. “I cannot believe she likes you,” Trahearne says as Roza coos and picks her up. He also cannot believe she is even allowing him to hold her—traitor—but it does ease his mind somewhat, since it means she has judged him and found him worthy.</p><p>“She loves me. Yes, you <em>do</em>. I <em>know</em>, yes.”</p><p>Trahearne watches as Harley nuzzles into his neck, smiling despite himself. Even the most calm and collected people can be turned into fools by a cat.</p><p>“She has to eat dinner away from my other two cats,” he comments, reaching out to scratch underneath her chin. Her eyes crease. “Or she will scarf it all up herself. You are so selfish.” The last sentence is an accusation aimed at the feline in question.</p><p>Roza looks at him with renewed interest—the most he has displayed all day. “You are her owner?”</p><p>“No one is truly her owner. But yes, a friend and I take turns housing her and giving her food. Somebody has to take care of her when she isn’t being spoiled by everyone in the library.”</p><p>“That is kind of you.” Harley paws at Roza’s arms, and he lets her spring off his lap. She trots away with her tail in the air. “I have a cat as well. But she hates everyone that is not me, so I cannot bring her anywhere.”</p><p>Trahearne understands his sudden interest now. “What is her name?” he asks.</p><p>Roza smiles fondly. “Eirwen. She is a beautiful little terror. Whenever my brother visits, she tries to claw his face off—it is quite funny.”</p><p>That doesn’t sound terribly funny. “I… see,” Trahearne says anyways. He takes the opportunity to glance at the clock, and sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Ooh. I have to start my work before the hour ticks too late, I am afraid. But it was nice to finally meet you, Roza.”</p><p>“You as well, doddery old firstborn.” Roza winks at him. “You are more interesting than I thought you would be. I suppose you may sit with me tomorrow, if you would like.”</p><p>“How gracious of you,” Trahearne says sardonically. “You are only half as impolite as I thought <em>you</em> would be, so I suppose I might.”</p><p>Roza gives a goodhearted laugh, and Trahearne tells himself it is certainly not a charming little noise. “Wonderful. It is settled then.”</p><p>He has to stop himself from replying with, <em>It’s a date.</em> “It is. I will see you tomorrow.”</p><p>He shrugs his bag over his shoulder and plods over to the computers. This conversation went better than he had expected. Much better, in fact. Maybe—just maybe—next time, he will ask for a phone number.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Caithe isn’t there when he returns home. Trahearne lets Harley out of her carrier, coos over the incessant mewling of his other cats, and manages to extricate himself from them enough to fill their food bowls.</p><p>With that taken care of, he makes himself dinner, and with <em>that</em> taken care of, he finally takes his phone off the coffee table and stares at it.</p><p>He debates over what to say for a long time. Finally, he slowly taps out with his forefinger, <em>He has a cat</em>.</p><p>The reply is nearly immediate: <em>yes!! she’s a demon</em></p><p>One thing Trahearne appreciates about Laranthir is the fact that although he isn’t as traditional as Trahearne is, he is still old-fashioned in some areas, which means he doesn’t make fun of his habits. That is to say, he texts like a normal person instead of an “old man” (Caithe’s words, not Trahearne’s) or a “swamp skelk high on toxic fumes” (Trahearne’s words, not Caithe’s).</p><p>The three dots that mean something is being typed are showing. Trahearne squints, and is just about to point out that Laranthir shouldn’t be texting on the job when up comes, <em>does this mean you’re at his house??</em></p><p>Again with the double punctuation. Trahearne frowns at the implication, deleting his own half-formed message character by character before typing a new one.</p><p><em>Laranthir! No, of course I am not. He simply told me he had a cat, is all</em>.</p><p>The three dots pop up again almost as soon as he sends it. He has enough time to add, <em>Shouldn’t you be working?</em></p><p>Thirty seconds later, <em>I am working! it's just quiet</em></p><p>It is quickly followed by, <em>so you actually spoke to him today? did you get his number?</em></p><p><em>No</em>, Trahearne texts back.</p><p>This time, the reply does not come for a while. Trahearne patters to the kitchen to boil the water for his nighttime tea. He is waiting for it when his phone buzzes once more.</p><p><em>I can give it to you, </em>reads the notification on the screen.</p><p>Trahearne’s stomach flips. Roza’s number, this soon? It <em>would</em> save him asking for it… but it would save him asking for it. Trahearne might skip past the possibility of another wink.</p><p><em>Why do you even have it?</em> he replies, stalling.</p><p>The response comes when his tea is steeping. <em>we’re friends its normal! there is no need to be jealous</em></p><p>“I am not jealous,” Trahearne mutters out loud. <em>It’s</em>, he types back.</p><p>Two minutes later, he gets sent an emoji of a sylvari rolling their eyes. He doesn’t deign to reply to it.</p><p>He is sipping at his tea, peacefully petting Leo on his couch, when his phone vibrates again. He sighs, unlocks the screen, and nearly has a heart attack when he sees a text from an unknown number.</p><p>
  <em>This is quite a lot of contact for one day, Professor. </em>
</p><p>By the Pale Tree. Of course he texts like that, Trahearne thinks. He licks his lips. He should not be this nervous—he is an experienced, well-travelled sylvari who has definitely spoken to people before.</p><p>
  <em>This is Roza, btw. Laranthir gave me your number. Let us not bother him anymore as a go-between, hm?</em>
</p><p>He types quickly. Trahearne carefully taps out: <em>I have not been bothering him; he takes the initiative himself.</em></p><p>
  <em>Pale mother, you type slowly. How long did it take you to find that semicolon? </em>
</p><p>Longer than Trahearne would like to admit. <em>Is this how you always begin conversations? With insults? </em>he asks. He should not be smiling. It is <em>rude</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Its part of my natural charm.</em>
</p><p>Immediately after, <em>It’s*. Damn phone</em></p><p>Trahearne takes note of the lack of closing punctuation. Slowly, he begins to type a reply.</p><p>The three dots pop up. <em>Take your time</em>, follows them.</p><p>A few seconds later: <em>I’ve got all night.</em></p><p>And then: <em>Do you find that the older you’ve gotten, the longer it takes you to do things? I worry that I too will start going senile when I hit double digits.</em></p><p>How had he gotten all of that out so quickly? Somewhat frustrated, Trahearne finally sends his text message. It reads: <em>And I told you earlier, you can just call me Trahearne.</em></p><p>The dots return for a depressively short period of time. <em>Now *that* should be a semicolon.</em></p><p>Trahearne makes an offended noise. <em>It should not</em>, he protests.</p><p>
  <em>It definitely should. Argue with me about it before I go to bed? Fastest to get all their points out wins.</em>
</p><p>A little laugh escapes Trahearne before he notices it, and he closes his mouth. Leo, thoroughly neglected at this point, stares at him balefully before slinking off to seek attention elsewhere.</p><p><em>How about this: I will write them down manually and send you a picture. Then we can have an academic discussion,</em> Trahearne sends after a couple of long minutes.</p><p><em>Deal</em>, comes back nearly immediately.</p><p>Trahearne smiles to himself, and stands up to go look for his notebook.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Trahearne receives an odd handful of texts over the course of the following day, ranging from <em>I think the librarian hates me</em> to <em>Do professors have favourite students? You must, right?</em> He tries to answer to the best of his ability, but it is a busy workday for him, so he does not have enough time to reply to all of them. Even so, each short message makes him smile, and he finds the day passes more quickly than usual.</p><p>When he gets to the library, Roza is already waiting for him. “Good evening, Professor. Or is it still late afternoon?”</p><p>“It can be both.” Trahearne sets his bag down on the empty seat at the table, and carefully extricates his laptop from it. It may be a bit dated for the university’s standards, but it is the only machine he trusts.</p><p>“Ah, an academic phenomenon. I’m sorry, what in Pale Mother’s name is that thing?”</p><p>“It’s my laptop.” Trahearne looks down past the disbelief on Roza’s face, to where he is holding his tablet with one hand. “I thought I would bring my work with me in a more efficient form, like you do. This hunk of metal may be old, but that means it is reliable.”</p><p>He taps the top of it lovingly before opening it up. Roza scoots around to his side, eyeing the keyboard with something like morbid fascination.</p><p>“I am fairly certain that thing is older than I,” he says in wonderment. Trahearne makes a considering noise—it might very well be.</p><p>Roza is very close to him now. Trahearne draws in a steadying breath, then takes a small step off the cliff. “You, ah, look nice today,” he says.</p><p>Roza glances down at himself automatically. He is wearing a black, high-collared dress shirt with some kind of floral pattern stitched into the fabric. “Thank you. I do try.”</p><p>The conversation doesn’t proceed further than that. Roza goes back to his seat. Trahearne quietly clears his throat, and they both attend to their own work in relative silence. Occasionally, Roza will make a quip, or Trahearne a comment, and it will spur a short exchange that strikes warmth inside his chest. It is all very nice. He wishes he could do this every day, but it is already the middle of the week.</p><p>“You are not here tomorrow, are you?” Trahearne asks after they have been sitting for a couple of hours. Roza is bound to leave soon, he knows.</p><p>Roza looks up from his tablet with a blankly curious expression, which morphs into a small smile. “I can be,” he says. “Will you be?”</p><p>Possibly until late at night, if Trahearne still needs to put together notes for his seminar presentation the following week. “Yes.”</p><p>“Then perhaps I shall take that as incentive and meet you here tomorrow, Professor.” For a frightful second he thinks Roza will wink, but he thankfully does not. Instead, he looks at the clock, sighs, and begins to gather his things. “It is getting late, which means I must sadly take my leave. How long do you usually stay here?”</p><p>Ah. “Depends on the day,” Trahearne says evasively. He might stay a little later this evening, since he has his laptop. Hopefully, he can hide from Laranthir.</p><p>“I see. Well, good evening.” Roza smiles again, just a little bit, and Trahearne returns it with ease. Thorns, he needs to—ask him to go somewhere, or something. How does one ask someone out on a date? Perhaps he will ask Laranthir for advice when he gets caught later.</p><p>Laranthir does catch and scold him, but Trahearne forgets to ask, and before he knows it, the week is almost over and he still has not asked Roza to do anything other than stay at the library with him. He does come back the next day, and then the next, and by the end of it Trahearne is kicking himself inside with each tick of the clock.</p><p><em>Ask him. Ask him.</em> “Roza.”</p><p>Roza looks up from across the table. “Yes?”</p><p>Is tomorrow too early? Next week is certainly too late. Trahearne scratches the back of his neck, fusses with a tangled leaf to pointlessly toy with a bit more time, and finally gets out, “Would you—like to do something? This weekend, perhaps.”</p><p>Roza stares at him. Slowly, his lips tip into a queasy frown, and slowly, dread sinks Trahearne’s stomach—and then Roza drops his pen on the table and startles. He picks it back up.</p><p>“What kind of something?” he asks.</p><p>“Ah…” Trahearne licks his lips. “Dinner, perhaps? Tomorrow, or… the day after, if that is too soon.”</p><p>Roza’s opens his mouth, then closes it. Yes, Trahearne realizes with growing trepidation, he hadn’t imagined the queasiness. Oh no. Oh, Pale Tree, he’s read this all wrong, hasn’t he?</p><p>“Trahearne, I—” Roza says, and glances down. When he looks back up, his eyes seem like two large, vacant pits. “You mean, as a date?”</p><p>“Yes,” Trahearne admits.</p><p>Roza nods, jaw working. “I see,” he says quietly. “Alright. I see now.”</p><p>“If you d—”</p><p>“Is that why?” Roza bites out, and Trahearne draws back, surprised at the sudden venom in his tone. “Is that why you’ve put up with me, and been so nice, and given me all this attention? You only want to get into my pants, is that it?”</p><p>“What? No, of course not!” Trahearne is shocked, and a little offended. He knows they’ve only just met a few days ago, but does Roza truly think that little of him?</p><p>“I am sorry, that was—uncalled for.” Roza glances down and takes a slow breath. “I have had… an unfortunate experience or two. I trust you would not… do that.”</p><p>Trahearne notes the careful, measured way in which he is speaking, and tempers his own tone. “No, I would not. I simply want to get to know you better, Roza. You are a compelling person, and I am interested in finding more about you. You do not have to say yes.”</p><p>Roza’s eyes jitter across his own, as if searching for something. They flick away. “Apologies, I don’t date,” he says stiffly.</p><p>Trahearne’s heart sinks. “That is alright,” he replies, smiling through his disappointment. He tries not to notice how heavy it feels. “I understand. I am sorry if I was coming on too strong.”</p><p>Roza watches him with something like wariness. “Does this mean all of this,” He gestures at their table with a disjointed hand, “Will stop, since I have said no?”</p><p><em>Oh.</em> Trahearne softens despite himself. “Do you want it to?” he asks.</p><p>Roza jerkily shakes his head. “I thought I was simply making a new friend.”</p><p>“Then you were.” Trahearne tries another smile. “We can continue as we were, Roza. Do not worry.”</p><p>Roza nods at him, seeming to accept that as an answer. But he is quiet for the rest of the evening, and when he gets up to leave, it is with only a low, muttered goodbye.</p><p>Trahearne drops his head until it falls onto the table with a <em>thud</em>. Well, thorns. He’s royally mucked that up.</p><p>~*~</p><p><em>You didn't tell me he’s not interested in dating</em>, he texts Laranthir that evening.</p><p>A few minutes, he gets a reply. <em>shift starts soon. who roza?</em></p><p><em>Yes</em>, Trahearne taps back, easily enough.</p><p>
  <em>well what did he say exactly? maybe you misunderstood</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He said, “I don’t date.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>oh</em>
</p><p>A second later: <em>thorns</em></p><p>Thorns indeed, Trahearne agrees. He puts his phone facedown on the coffee table and sinks into his armchair with a sigh, covering his face with his hand.</p><p>His phone soon buzzes again. He slaps his hand over it, tugs it towards himself, and flips it up.</p><p><em>did you try talking to him? </em>blinks at him from the screen.</p><p>Trahearne frowns. <em>Sort of</em>, he types back. He adds, <em>Shouldn’t you be working now?</em></p><p>
  <em>this is more important. and I am but she’s old and walks very slowly</em>
</p><p>What? Trahearne chooses to ignore that. The dots come back, and he waits for the message to accompany them. Soon enough, it pops up: <em>even if he said no, you’ve gained a good friend</em></p><p>Trahearne sighs. <em>He didn’t seem too happy with me.</em></p><p>
  <em>hold on</em>
</p><p>Trahearne puts his tea on while he waits. He is about a third of the of the way through drinking it and feeling sorry for himself when his phone finally vibrates with a new text.</p><p>
  <em>he probably didn’t expect you to express interest. I hope you’ve at least reassured him you can still be friends, or if I were him, I’d be feeling used right now.</em>
</p><p>Trahearne stares at the words for a few seconds as he digests them. Laranthir is right, he realizes, and hurriedly fumbles with the screen to close the conversation. Roza hasn’t texted him at all since earlier, but neither has Trahearne. And he <em>is</em> the one who has changed things.</p><p>Roza’s last message reads: <em>Then I will see you later today, Professor Pushover ;)</em> Trahearne rereads it and winces. He cannot be <em>entirely</em> at fault for misconstruing certain things as flirtatious.</p><p>He thinks for a long minute, and then finally texts: <em>Roza, I am sorry if I made things awkward earlier.</em></p><p>The reply comes almost immediately. <em>It’s alright. I didn’t mean to come on to you or give you the wrong impression, and that is my fault.</em></p><p>Trahearne frowns. <em>It really isn’t. But I am glad I learned you’re not interested in that now rather than later. It’s early enough that no harm was done.</em></p><p>The dots appear, then disappear, then reappear once more. Trahearne waits patiently.</p><p>Just as he is finishing the last sip of his tea, Roza texts back. <em>Does this mean you’ll be at the library next week?</em></p><p>Trahearne smiles. Situation rectified. <em>Of course. Actually, I wanted to ask you something.</em></p><p>
  <em>By the PT with the speed you type at saying that first is torture. Shoot.</em>
</p><p>That earns a chuckle, and Trahearne shakes his head at himself. “It’s all well now,” he tells Leo, who is sleeping at his feet. He gets a loud snore in reply.</p><p><em>Meet me at the café for breakfast tomorrow?</em> he asks Roza. <em>Just for a chat. I’m curious about the theory you raised the other day about sentience conversion amidst magic types.</em></p><p>The answer to that comes quickly. <em>Oh!</em></p><p>Then, <em>Just a chat?</em></p><p><em>Just a chat, as friends,</em> Trahearne confirms.</p><p>
  <em>Excellent. I don’t get up that early when I don’t have work because I’m not a plebeian, but I can do lunch. Say 1?</em>
</p><p>Trahearne smiles again, and it quickly grows to spread across his face. <em>1 sounds lovely, </em>he types.</p><p>They bid each other an early goodnight. Trahearne is still absently grinning to himself as he drops his phone back onto the coffee table. The matter is fixed now, and with very little blood and tears. Their relationship might take a different path than he had initially hoped, but Roza truly does seem like an interesting person and a worthwhile friend to have. Trahearne is sure he can lose… whatever lingering crush he may have easily enough.</p><p>He only realizes later, when his phone begins to buzz anxiously and repeatedly, that he left Laranthir hanging.</p><p>~*~</p><p>The next morning is temperate and pleasantly sunny. Trahearne wakes up, calls Caithe to check if she wants to stay over for the weekend (she has other plans), and eventually heeds the loud cacophony of his cats wailing for food. He divides the time until noon between making very little headway on the pile of quizzes he has to grade, munching on a belated breakfast, and flipping with mild interest through a new book he has borrowed from the library.</p><p>He takes time to enjoy the walk to the café—there is a mild breeze, and it makes the air cool and pleasant. He finds Roza sitting inside, scrolling down his tablet and dressed far better than anyone has any right to be on a break day.</p><p>“Ah!” He looks up with a smile when Trahearne approaches him. “My revered platonic acquaintance with whom I share many interests. I hope what you said about the conversion theory was true, because I’ve brought our non-contracted data with me.”</p><p>“It very much is, I am pleased to say. By ‘our,’ do you mean your research team?”</p><p>Roza’s smile turns more genuine. “I do! There is me, the team leader—hello—then there is my partner in, ah, <em>necrology</em>, Marjory, and then Taimi is—well, I’ll tell you all about them after we order. I am starving.”</p><p>They get their food and drinks, and then Roza begins to talk. Laranthir is right—he is passionate about his research. Something about his carefully controlled enthusiasm is so very charming, especially when he accidentally gesticulates a bit more than he means to, or speaks a little louder or a little faster when Trahearne responds to something he has said with an educated insight. He gets the feeling Roza is not used to talking about his work with someone who understands every word.</p><p>“—which proves that those creatures <em>also </em>consume magic, and who knows what that could mean for their natural ecosystem! It will be very fun to test out. Field work is more Marjory’s area than mine, unfortunately—I’m one of the thinkers, and she’s a doer—but I still take a trip with her on occasion.”</p><p>“That does sound like a lot of fun,” Trahearne says, a bit wistfully. He wishes <em>he </em>could go back out into the field and poke around at dead things and coral again. “It makes me miss my Orrian discovery days, to tell you the truth.”</p><p>“Oh?” Roza’s eyes light up. “You know, I didn’t tell you this, but… your research is what got me started on necromancy in the first place. If you would care to share some of your experiences firsthand, I am all ears.”</p><p>Trahearne smiles. “Perhaps later, when we have more time. But I am flattered to be a starting influence on such a bold mind.”</p><p>“Are you calling me bold, Professor?” Roza laughs, then winks, and Trahearne’s stomach does a funny little flip. <em>Bad</em>, he scolds it, frowning internally. Roza is <em>not</em> interested, he has established that now. Alas, attraction does not simply disappear within a day.</p><p>He chooses to ignore it, instead raising an eyebrow at the sly grin across from him. “What would you call yourself, then?”</p><p>“Ah.” Roza holds up a skeletal hand. He begins to tick off his fingers. “Debonair. Charming. Terribly intelligent. Uh…”</p><p>“Short,” Trahearne offers.</p><p>Roza scoffs at him, offended, and he laughs. “I am not short!”</p><p>“No, you are miniscule.” Trahearne grins when that earns another, louder protest. “I wonder if you can even reach the top cabinets without fetching a stool.”</p><p>Roza gapes at him. Then, slowly, his cheeks turn gold, and Trahearne’s eyes widen in delight. “You can’t!”</p><p>“I most certainly can!” Roza squeaks indignantly. An old human woman nearby shushes him, spittle flying from her lips. He barely lowers his voice. “I have never fetched a stool in my life! I do not even own a stool, actually!”</p><p>“What, do you use magic to get to them?” Trahearne cajoles.</p><p>“You—” To his absolute glee, Roza begins to pulse a soft shade of lilac, something Trahearne has only seen the hints of a couple of times before. His hands clench, then release. “Ooh, <em>ugh</em>! And so what if I do?! You are as bad as Canach.”</p><p>Canach is his brother, the cat victim, Trahearne has learned. He grins, ear-to-ear. Roza collapses in his chair with a large, overdramatic pout.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Trahearne soothes. “All magic exists for a reason.”</p><p>Roza glares. Trahearne tries to press his lips together to stem his smile, but to no avail.</p><p>He eases out of the subject for the frayed remains of Roza’s pride, if nothing else. Thankfully, he seems to bounce back quickly (perhaps he is used to being called short), and their conversation picks up speed once more. By the time Trahearne is on his way back home, he feels as if he is floating, high on making a good connection with an interesting person.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Roza shows up at the library the next workday, and then the next, and then the rest of the week. They text outside of those meetings—or at least, Roza texts, and Trahearne tries to reply fast enough. He suggests calling instead, but apparently that is not something that young hip sylvari do nowadays, because Roza looks at him as if he has sprouted roots from his head. <em>I will bear through your geriatric messaging habits</em>, he declares grandly, and Trahearne chooses not to tell him that before Laranthir had bought him his current phone (and harassed him into using it), it had taken him a <em>lot</em> longer to type. He doesn’t think Roza would understand the concept of a screen that doesn’t respond to touch. He probably wasn’t even born back then.</p><p>A week turns into two, and then three, and before Trahearne knows it a month has come and gone. He is branch-deep in midterm papers before too long, which means that most of his interactions with other people—including Roza—consist of him whining about it.</p><p>“Just fail them all,” Roza tells him one evening, carelessly tapping away at his phone across the table.</p><p>Trahearne watches the rapid way his thumbs move with a despondent gaze (not only is he inexplicably efficient at texting, he can apparently hold multiple conversations at a time. Trahearne can barely manage one). “I wish it could be that simple. Honestly, I’ve been pushing for the university to let us implement a pass/fail system at our discretion. It would make it easier on everyone involved.”</p><p>“And deny your best students their bragging rights? Also, question: Skelk venom sac extraction—gloves on or not? It’s already dead.”</p><p>“Please be a responsible team leader and tell your colleague to put their gloves on. And not all of my students aim for a good grade, Roza. Some simply want to pass.”</p><p>“Gloves… on.” Roza sets his phone down on the table, leans back, and gazes at Trahearne through lidded eyes. “Very well then. In that case, I think it’s an excellent idea. There is no use in propagating a sense of fairness if the very system that the students are forced to participate in is set against them by design.”</p><p>Trahearne blinks at him. “I… admit I did not expect you to hold that opinion. You seem to take pride in the quality of your work.”</p><p>“I do.” Roza shrugs one shoulder in a way that manages to look at once both utterly casual and witheringly dismissive. “Yet that does not mean I have to hold it up against someone else’s to see its value. Taimi, when we were in college, held higher marks than even I. Does that mean we should have allowed that to determine the importance of our positions on our team? No. We both focus on completely different aspects of our research.”</p><p>He glances idly at his phone, which has lit up. “Jory says I’m a coward for the gloves thing.”</p><p>Oh, the duality of intelligence. “What got you appointed as your team leader?” Trahearne asks out of curiosity.</p><p>“They can only manage their individual selves. I manage us as a whole.” Roza plucks his phone from the table with two quick fingers, slipping it into his breast pocket. He looks back at Trahearne, and his lips curve into a small smile. “Apologies. I have been told it is rude to text and talk. How goes your grading, Professor? Do you need me to distract you?”</p><p>Trahearne licks his lips. He doesn’t mean it like that. He does <em>not</em>. “Um, ah…”</p><p>He trails off. Roza has bent forwards to lean an elbow on the table. He props his head up on it, drumming his fingers against his cheek. “Yes?”</p><p>Trahearne clears his throat. Alright, he may still have the occasional… thought. He cannot help it—Roza has this odd, almost impish way of acting sometimes, as if Trahearne is a ball of yarn and he wants to push him down a flight of stairs to see how much he will unravel. It is… certainly something. Hopefully, he will get bored of doing it soon, or Trahearne doesn’t know how he will manage.</p><p>“I <em>would</em> appreciate a distraction,” he admits to slitted eyes. “But on the other hand, I really do need to make some headway into this pile.”</p><p>“It is rather intimidatingly large, is it not?” Roza’s smirk says that the innuendo is entirely on purpose. Trahearne half-rolls his eyes in response. “Come, then. Let us rise to alertness and get some coffee inside of you, and then perhaps once we have finished, you will find yourself sated with insight anew.”</p><p>“That is <em>not</em> what I meant by distraction,” Trahearne says as they get up, although he is doing a bad job of hiding his smile.</p><p>“Are you saying you do not like my terrible jokes?” Roza brushes his arm with his fingertips as they walk. “I’ll have you know they are dearly beloved amongst my friendship circle. Mostly. Kasmeer thinks I am utterly hilarious.”</p><p>“I’ll have to meet these friends of yours one day.” There is some coffee left in the machine, thankfully. Trahearne holds the carafe up to judge if it is enough to be worthy of drinking. “They seem like an interesting lot,” he adds.</p><p>“They’d like you.” Roza falls quiet for a few seconds, watching as he pours it all into a sad little cup.</p><p>After a moment, he flutters his hand. “I… do miss them a bit,” he admits. “We meet in person far too infrequently, especially all of us together. Perhaps next time we have a party or a get-together, you can come along. I know Jory at least would love to meet you.”</p><p>“And I would love to teach her the basics of lab safety,” Trahearne replies. That earns a little laugh, and he glances down at Roza in some surprise.</p><p>“We do live life on the edge, we necromancers.” Roza catches his gaze and gives him a quick little wink. “Except for you, it seems, Professor. You’re so terribly by the book it makes me feel oh so <em>exciting</em> to exist next to you sometimes.”</p><p>Trahearne frowns at that; not just from the comment, but from the low, almost murmuring curve of Roza’s voice. Is he flirting? He pauses, giving his expression and posture a brief onceover. Then he presses a lid onto his coffee cup and steps away.</p><p>“Perhaps don’t get too excited,” he says neutrally. He raises the cup. “Let us return.”</p><p>Roza seems to notice the withdrawal. His coy expression fades into his bark, evening out his features and leaving only a small furrow of a frown from his left eyebrow.</p><p>“I have… offended you,” he says carefully. The furrow vanishes. “Ah. I am sorry. I actually think you are quite interesting, Trahearne. And sensibleness is something I can always appreciate.”</p><p>His mouth curves into a small, friendly smile. Trahearne doesn’t return it, still feeling a little off-kilter.</p><p>“Thank you,” he replies. “Although I think that perhaps it would be easier to keep that appreciation into easily-defined boxes.”</p><p>Roza’s brow knits in confusion. Trahearne sighs inwardly. He doesn’t feel the need to nudge the conversation enough into frankness that it is uncomfortable. Roza probably does not mean any harm—he may not even be aware Trahearne has any lingering attraction towards him in the first place. If the flirtatious behaviour—if that’s what it is—gets bad enough to be an issue, Trahearne decides, he will say something. Probably. However… if it <em>is</em> innocent, he does not want to upset him.</p><p>“Never mind.” He smiles back, feeling a little guilty for his standoffishness. Roza’s own smile has fallen by now, and does not return. “Come, I need to get back to my grading.”</p><p>He walks back. Roza hesitates for a moment before silently falling into step behind him. The air is a little awkward from the social faux-pas, but they are mature adults, and it will pass.</p><p>Surely enough, conversation comes back rather easily. Trahearne thinks Roza steals glances at him a few times when he is not looking, but he cannot catch him in the act, and he lets it go without paying it much heed. Other than that, Roza seems a little quieter as the evening wanes on, as if he is lost in thought.</p><p>It is only when a shadow falls across the current paper Trahearne is trying to get through—something about the comparing and contrasting of Ascalon’s monarchial history with Orr’s, he thinks, although it is difficult to tell when the entire thing seems to consist of only one incredibly long paragraph—that he realizes just how late the it has gotten. He peers at the clock, and blinks rapidly when he reads the hour. By the bough, it is nearly eight.</p><p>“I did not realize how much time has passed,” he comments as he hurriedly begins to get his things together. He will relocate to his office to finish marking the rest of the midterms—he can continue there without disrupting any of the other staff’s schedules.</p><p>“Hm?” Roza stirs, watching him dump papers into his bag with a confused, sluggish gaze. He cranes his neck to squint at the clock himself, then sighs. “Oh. Thorns, I still have things to get done. Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose, Professor.”</p><p>“Of course. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Roza.”</p><p>Trahearne debates on whether or not to offer him some form of affectionate gesture—a hug, or a handshake, perhaps—but decides against it. He cannot think of anything that is not too awkward to fit, not to mention possibly unwelcome—Roza does not seem to like physical contact. He finally decides on a stilted little wave, and then he hauls his bag over his shoulder and leaves the library. It is Sieran’s week of having Harley, so he does not need to worry about that.</p><p>He texts Caithe on his way to his office (that is to say, he tries to walk and text, but has to slow down to a standstill, which means he stays in the elevator of his department building for far too long and completely misses his floor) and asks her to feed the cats. She replies with “<em>omw ovr</em>,” and “<em>dont stay 2 l8 k?</em>” which Trahearne pretends to understand and agree to.</p><p>He reaches his office and unlocks the door with a tired sigh. He drops his bag onto his desk—resignation only solidifying with the heavy <em>thud</em> it falls with—slumps into his desk chair, and runs a hand through his ferns.</p><p>Time to get to work.</p><p>An hour passes. Two hours. A pang of hunger strikes him, but fades as the clock ticks by. Trahearne is a third of the way through his pile. Now almost halfway through. He slows down, even if that means that it will take him longer, because his students deserve to not be speed-read.</p><p>It is… late. Trahearne only knows that one minute he is slumped in his chair, exhausted, his head drooping lower and lower, and the next, his phone is bleeping obnoxiously at him. The midnight alarm that someone has set up—he has not yet figured out whom, nor has he figured out how to turn it off—is blaring. It is a bit ironic, really, that an alarm is what is supposed to convey the message of, <em>If this thing is still on, you had better go to sleep, Trahearne, I swear to the Mother.</em></p><p>He fumbles with his phone and somehow manages to shut it up. He glances at his “finished” pile, then his “unfinished” pile, groans, and picks up his bag from where it had fallen on the floor after he had unceremoniously shoved it off his desk. Time to go home.</p><p>He is about halfway across campus when he remembers that he had wanted to pick something up from the archives for his next class. He heaves a heavy sigh, turns on his heel, and shuffles off in the opposite direction. They really need to implement a teleportation system, he muses grouchily. Rata Sum has it. Why can’t they be like Rata Sum? Asura should not get to hoard all the transportation goodies for themselves just because they have short legs. Oh, he should never voice that thought out loud. It really <em>is</em> late.</p><p>He has a key to the archives, although it takes him an embarrassingly long minute to find it in only the faint, temporary light his glow casts. Finally, he slits the key in the slot—and frowns. The door is unlocked.</p><p>His first instinct is to call for security. Laranthir, or whoever else is around, will come quickly. But no, that may not be necessary. Perhaps the last person who went inside simply forgot to lock the door when they left.</p><p>Trahearne opens it and cautiously pokes his head inside.</p><p>He can see nothing. He enters slowly, shutting the door behind him and wincing at the heavy <em>thud</em> it closes with. The possibility of someone else being in here, however improbably, is just enough to stop him from switching the lights on. Instead, he cups his hands to his face, whispers magic into them, and conjures a small, glowing ball of frost.</p><p>He slowly makes his way through to where he vaguely knows the historical tomes are, squinting at his surroundings and calling his light close when he cannot make them out. Student records… faculty records… some strange orb…</p><p>He is making some ghastly expression at the spine of a large, thick volume, trying to read its title, when he hears a noise. Immediately, he freezes.</p><p>“Who’s there?” he calls out. He flicks his wrist and his light spins, illuminating the surrounding area with a dull, frigid pulse of white.</p><p>No one answers immediately. Trahearne is about to investigate when he hears, quiet as a skulking skritt: “He—hello?”</p><p>“Hello? Who are you? Why are you down here?” Trahearne frowns, trying to figure out from which direction the voice is coming from. “Stay there, I’m coming to you.”</p><p>The archives are large, and noise echoes. So the quiet gasp, when it comes, is not <em>quite</em> inaudible. Trahearne picks the direction he thinks he hears it in and strides towards it rapidly.</p><p>He hears another small noise. He thinks it sounds like “Wait,” but it is difficult to tell. However, it is definitely a person, he is certain of that now. He can feel no spirit or ghost, and mimicry animals do not react like this.</p><p>He thinks he can hear rapid breathing, and increases his pace. Soon enough, the cold, distant light of his frost orb soon falls on emptier shelves, then a book of records dropped facedown on the floor, then a black cluster of mass that turns into legs, and the rest of a body, and—</p><p>Trahearne nearly dissipates the spell in his shock. “Roza?!”</p><p>Roza stares up at him through large, vacant, <em>wet</em> eyes. Trahearne rushes forwards, all thoughts of an intruder fleeing his mind. Yes, he is crying, those are tear tracks reflecting light off his bark. But he is too dark—he seems half plunged into shadow, and Trahearne cannot see his glow.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” he asks. He recognizes the familiar taste of dark magic when his own reaches out to it. Is Roza protecting himself? Hiding? How long has he been here? “Roza, what happened?”</p><p>Roza inhales shakily. Long, pale fingers reach out, then retract, and Trahearne feels a pang in his chest at the hesitance of the movement. “I… I’m sorry. Go home. You should be home. Why are you here?”</p><p>“I was working late.” Trahearne drops his bag on the floor, kneeling down in front of him. He gets an unexpected urge to simply wrap him in his arms, to gently reassure him that it is alright until all his tears are gone. He does not. “I am most certainly not going home and leaving you here like this. What happened? Did someone hurt you?”</p><p>Roza’s eyes widen. He shakes his head, slowly. “No one… hurt me. This happens sometimes. Go home. You shouldn’t…”</p><p>He reaches out again, and his hand is shaking. “Go home,” he whispers. “Let me suffer in my silence.”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Trahearne swears. He catches the trembling hand, and Roza’s eyes widen further, into two large, empty circles.</p><p>“Leave me,” he pleads. His chest begins to heave, and hand curls weakly inside Trahearne’s. “I am overreacting. I know I am. I always am.”</p><p>“You are not,” Trahearne replies firmly. He squeezes, and Roza makes a high, croaking noise. “I don’t know what happened, but <em>this</em> cannot have been caused by nothing.”</p><p>Roza begins to wheeze, audibly. Trahearne switches tactics, letting go of his hand. “Take a deep breath. It’s alright.”</p><p>“I know,” Roza says. But he obeys, and takes a deep, shaky breath. Then another, and he closes his eyes.</p><p>Finally, he says in a hoarse voice, “Trahearne. I’m not thinking rationally. Do you know what—what—”</p><p>He breaks off to inhale raggedly. “Sorry. Don’t listen to—whatever I’m saying. I’m just spouting nonsense. I need to calm down.”</p><p>Trahearne feels helpless. He wants to <em>do</em> something. “Do you need something from me?” he asks.</p><p>“Sit with me,” Roza pleads. “I—please. If you’re not going to leave me… just be here.”</p><p><em>If you’re not going to leave me</em> catches at Trahearne’s chest, tugging at it like it is caught in a bramble bush. Of course he is not going to simply <em>leave</em>. He wants to blurt that out, but he does not, instead shuffling over to Roza’s side. It is an awkward thing to fold his long legs until they more or less fit, but he manages it.</p><p>Roza slowly lets the shadows he has pulled over himself fall. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I… am sorry for doing this. I am not your burden to bear.”</p><p>“Don’t apologize,” Trahearne tells him. His form is becoming easier to make out, and now the faintest pulse of his glow is visible. Trahearne lets out a quiet breath of relief. “I cannot simply leave you like this, alone and in pain,” he adds.</p><p>Roza shakes his head. “You can,” he disagrees.</p><p>Trahearne frowns. How can he say that so easily, with such passivity, yet conviction? “Of course I cannot. What kind of a friend would that make me? What kind of a person?”</p><p>Roza draws his knees up, slowly lowering his face into them. He is trembling faintly, Trahearne can see now.</p><p>“You are too kind already,” Roza whispers. “Too kind by half. Look at me—how unfair I have been to you. I do not deserve your kindness.”</p><p>He looks up. He is crying again, wetness leaking from his eyes, and a sharp ache pierces Trahearne’s chest when he notices. He reaches out automatically, wiping Roza’s cheeks with his sleeve.</p><p>“Hush,” he says to eyes that suddenly go large as the moon’s shadow. “I do not want to hear that kind of talk from you, is that clear? Of course you deserve comfort, Roza. Come here.”</p><p>He opens an arm. Roza opens his mouth, which pops wetly. “Wh… what?”</p><p>“You heard me,” Trahearne repeats, doubling down on what was admittedly an impulsive statement. Pale Mother, Roza has absolutely no right to sound so shocked. It is not good for Trahearne’s heart, the wretched thing. It is already bent and beaten out of shape from this entire scene.</p><p>“You—want to—hug me?” Roza says joltingly. “<em>Me?</em>”</p><p>“If you will accept it,” Trahearne replies. Roza stares at him as if he has grown an extra head, and really, it is <em>offensive</em>. Trahearne tuts at him, beckoning with an impatient hand. He had better hurry up and accept before Trahearne decides to swaddle him in a blanket, take him home, and force-feed him a bowl of milk.</p><p>Roza ducks his chin. Slowly, hesitantly, he shuffles sideways into Trahearne’s waiting arm. He quickly glances up, as if to check it is alright, and <em>thorns</em>. Thorns.</p><p>Trahearne bravely resists the urge to squeeze him until sap leaks out of his ears. He eases into a half hug, taking care to check Roza’s reaction. He does not seem scared, however, only confused. Thank the Mother Tree—Trahearne does not think he could take <em>that</em>.</p><p>Roza slowly leans his head down, easing its weight onto Trahearne’s shoulder. “This is… nice,” he says. He sounds surprised. “You…”</p><p>He looks up, and their eyes meet. Roza’s are still large, shining dark and quiet. His lips are parted in bewilderment, as if he does not quite understand what is happening. His hands have fallen, but he brings them up, curling them against Trahearne’s chest.</p><p>He is very close.</p><p>“You, ah…” he whispers. “You are… very warm. And, um… nice-feeling.”</p><p>There is a faint flush underneath his bark, but Trahearne is probably imagining it. Roza licks his lips, and Trahearne’s eyes briefly fall to the movement before he catches himself.</p><p>Oh, Pale Mother. This is not happening.</p><p>Roza huddles further into him, sighing faintly, and Trahearne closes his eyes and tries to pull himself together. He can do this. Roza just needs support, that is all. He can be a <em>friend</em> and provide him with all the <em>friendly</em> support he needs. He can do that easily, in fact. He has friends. He knows how they work.</p><p>Oh, mulch. Laranthir. Night Patrol.</p><p>“You are so… kind to me,” Roza is mumbling. His face is turned into Trahearne’s body, which means that his voice comes out muffled. “I… have never had a friend like you before. Not just because you are so tall. I mean… you <em>are</em> very tall…”</p><p>Trahearne half listens to him, feeling only a little badly about it. It is late—thorns, is it <em>late—</em>and they both have work in the morning. He needs to get Roza to his car, and then safely home. But is he even in a state to drive?</p><p>“I mean, not that I don’t know any tall people. Because I do. A few, actually, but they're all norn and charr. And they don’t smell like you. Do you, um, know what you smell like? It’s very ni—”</p><p>“Roza,” Trahearne interrupts gently, “We need to leave the archives and then go home, alright? Do you think you can drive?”</p><p>Roza turns his head so he can look at him, and stares. “You, um,” he says. “Go… home? With…”</p><p>Trahearne frowns. “Roza, are you alright?” Maybe he cannot drive after all.</p><p>Roza swallows. “Yes. Your glow is… um. A beautiful colour. Violet is my favourite colour, actually, you know. It makes you look… like you are poisonous.”</p><p>“Thank… you,” Trahearne replies, somewhat confused. Is that a compliment? He gives his head a quick shake to jog his thoughts. “Roza, we need to get up. Can you do that?”</p><p>Roza winces. “I meant… ah. Yes, of course I can stand.”</p><p>He does so, somewhat gracefully. Trahearne unfolds himself as well, wincing, and gives Roza a quick onceover out of concern. Thankfully, he does not appear to be hurt or injured. Still, Trahearne offers him his arm in case he needs it for support.</p><p>Roza’s glow blooms. “Oh,” he says, and timidly slips his hand into Trahearne’s.</p><p>Well then. That works as well. Trahearne grabs his bag, picks up the records book that had fallen to reshelve it, and sends his frost light out in front of them to lead them out of the archives.</p><p>It is easy enough, since he knows the way out—although Roza keeps darting little glances around as if he has absolutely no idea where they are, and Trahearne most certainly does <em>not</em> want to think about how long he would have stayed in here by himself—and soon enough, they reach the entrance. Trahearne makes sure to lock the door behind them once they are back out in the hallway.</p><p>Roza rubs his arms to warm himself as he dials Night Patrol from the nearby intercom (they can figure out the car situation then). It makes him frown—Roza’s hand had been cold, and it is still early enough in the spring that the fact that he doesn’t have a light jacket is worrying.</p><p>
  <em>“Hello, you’ve reached Night Patrol. Do you require our services?”</em>
</p><p>That is Laranthir’s voice, thank the Tree. “Laranthir, we’re at the archives, right by the entrance,” Trahearne tells him.</p><p>
  <em>“Trahearne? I knew it was going to be you. Did you get spooked by another raccoon? Alright, wait there. I’ll come get you.”</em>
</p><p>The connection shuts off before Trahearne can defend his sensible wariness of small, fast critters with hands. He sighs, leaning against the wall to wait—and notices that Roza is sporting the smallest of smiles.</p><p>“A… raccoon?” he questions tentatively.</p><p>Trahearne breathes out a chuckle, if only to put him at ease. “Long story. Let us just say that there is a reason I keep my office window closed at all times now.”</p><p>“Hah.” Roza tips his head, scratching at his cheek. “Does this mean you had to tell your students that a raccoon ate their homework?”</p><p>This time the chuckle is more genuine. “Fortunately, no, although it did make off with a paperweight. Laranthir laughed at me the entire time he was shooing it out.”</p><p>Roza ducks his chin into his chest. “That sounds pleasant. I, um. Usually call him for security reasons. Or…” His eyes fall to the floor. “To… come get me.”</p><p>Trahearne frowns lightly at the first part (and files away the second). “Do you feel unsafe on campus?”</p><p>Roza’s shoulders hunch together. “It is not the campus,” he says. “I am… simply used to being on edge. It makes me feel safer, when someone else is watching everything for me. And he is good at keeping the mood light.”</p><p>“That he is,” Trahearne agrees with a smile. Roza returns an echo of it.</p><p>He rubs at his arms again after a minute, suppressing a shiver. Trahearne looks at him in concern. That ruffled shirt, although very well-fitted and expensive-looking, also looks frightfully thin. And Roza’s touch had been so cool, he remembers.</p><p>“Do you have a sweater or coat somewhere?” he asks. “You seem cold.”</p><p>“Oh.” Roza looks a little startled. “Ah… no, I do not. It is alright—I am used to it.”</p><p>Trahearne begins to unbutton his sweater. It is heavy enough that he had it unbuttoned for nearly the whole day, only doing it back up later in the evening. Roza watches him with a frown.</p><p>Trahearne shrugs it off his shoulders and holds it out. “Here,” he says.</p><p>Roza’s eyes widen in shock. “What—for me? No, no. It is your sweater.”</p><p>“You can return it to me tomorrow,” Trahearne reassures. He steps closer to drape the garment around Roza’s narrow shoulders. Thorns, he is thin as a twig—no wonder he is so cold. Trahearne wonders if he too had skipped dinner.</p><p>“Um. Thank you, I…” There is a flush beneath Roza’s bark, he thinks, but it is hard to see. Good. Hopefully the embarrassment warms him. “Excuse me. That is kind of you.”</p><p>“You are very welcome.” Trahearne pats his shoulder for good measure, leaving his hand for a lingering second as he sees a light shine from the end of the hall. “Ah, just in time.”</p><p>Laranthir jogs up to them as soon as he sees them. “Goodness, two of you,” he says. He scans Roza from branches to feet, taking in his posture, his bowed head, and—with a quick glance at Trahearne—the sweater.</p><p>He bends down to speak to him. “Roza,” he says in a lowered tone, “Are you alright?”</p><p>He glances at Trahearne again, almost cautiously, but Roza does not seem to see any need to keep their conversation private. “I am now that Trahearne is here,” he replies simply.</p><p>Laranthir frowns at that. “Did you have a panic attack?”</p><p>Trahearne’s stomach jumps. Roza nods quietly, and it jumps higher. “Earlier. Before he came.”</p><p>“Alright.” Laranthir straightens up. “Then we can call you a ride home. Come on, you two.”</p><p>He begins to lead them to the parking lot, and they fall into step behind him. Roza idly picks at his hands.</p><p>“Trahearne suggested, um,” he says, tearing at the curling edges of a leaf, “That I could go home with him.”</p><p>Laranthir’s light spins around to flash over their faces. Trahearne says, “Ah,” and adjusts his shoulder strap.</p><p>“Not exactly what I meant,” he hurriedly rectifies. Judging by Laranthir’s expression, it is probably best if he clears that up quickly. “I simply said we ought to return home. But I can drive you to yours, Roza. I’m assuming you are alright with leaving your car here overnight?” Judging by the conversation that just happened, that is.</p><p>Roza nods. “I just take public transit the next morning. And, um. It doesn’t happen often. The… panic attacks.”</p><p>His eyes dart to Trahearne’s. Trahearne offers what he hopes comes across as a reassuring smile, and Roza’s shoulders lose some of their tension.</p><p>“You can call or text me next time, if you need to,” he suggests. Roza’s eyes go large again. Unsure, Trahearne adds, “Is that alright?” but gets a hasty nod.</p><p>They reach the elevators, and travel down to the main floor in silence. Trahearne notices how Roza’s gaze turns hazy, and how he hovers behind Laranthir as if to shield himself with him. He wonders just how often they have done this.</p><p>“Here we are,” Laranthir says pleasantly when the door dings open. Roza gives a small start, as if jolted from a daze.</p><p>“We can go through the doors at the far end if you want to proceed outside,” Laranthir continues, pointing. Trahearne gets the feeling he is not speaking for him. “Or we could keep going inside.”</p><p>“Outside,” Roza requests quietly.</p><p>“Outside it is! Lovely night.” They keep walking. “Trahearne’s car is this hideous, noisy thing that is probably older than the both of us. You will hate it.”</p><p>“I,” says Roza, looking down. Then, “Yeah.”</p><p>They are halfway through the parking lot when he tentatively reaches out to brush Trahearne’s arm with two fingers. “May I ask you something?” he says.</p><p>“Of course,” Trahearne acquiesces. “Anything.”</p><p>“Do you… not want me to stay at your house?” Roza’s mouth twists. “I… would be very kind to your cats. And I would sleep in the basement or something, of course. I would not disturb you in the slightest.”</p><p>They slow to a stop. Trahearne’s chest clenches. There he goes again, saying things like that. It really isn’t good for anyone’s health—even Laranthir looks vaguely stricken.</p><p>“Do you not want to go back to yours, Roza?” Trahearne asks.</p><p>Roza scans his expression carefully, as if searching for some hidden answer to a question he is too afraid to ask. Finally, his face loosens, and he looks away.</p><p>“No, you have been too kind to me already. What with the sweater and… Never mind. Apologies.”</p><p>“Roza.” Trahearne lays a hand on his shoulder with a frown. Roza glances up once more. “If you do not wish to return to your house, you can stay at mine for the night. It wouldn’t be a bother.”</p><p>“My apartment,” Roza corrects. “No, I really do not want to be even more of an imposition. You do not know what I am like, after…” He trails off, then flashes his teeth. “Hah. I suppose you do now. I am useless. I simply… sit. Your cats would start to eat me.”</p><p>He chuckles, trying to flash a smile. Trahearne, whose concern is now growing at an exponential pace, says, “That is the exact opposite of reassuring, Roza. Thorns, I hadn’t even thought of that—do you have anyone to care for you? A roommate? Your brother?”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“He does not,” Laranthir interrupts. “Come, we’re nearly there. I can almost hear your car from here, Trahearne.”</p><p>Roza shoots him a glare. “Fine, I do not. But I do not need <em>care</em>—that is not what I was implying. I can take care of myself perfectly well, thank you very much.”</p><p>“I agree with Trahearne.” Laranthir crosses his arms. For once, his face is unsmiling. “You should go with him. He will even force you to consume something more than a single cup of tea for breakfast.”</p><p>Trahearne frowns sharply. “That’s all you have?”</p><p>“Yes, and what of it? It is… difficult.” To his horror, Roza’s expression begins to crumble. “Alright? Fine, it is so hard. It is hard to make food every day, so <em>many</em> times. Sometimes it is hard to change clothes, or to get ready for bed properly. You don’t understand.” He covers his face with his hands. “I can’t. I just can’t.”</p><p>He starts to gasp raggedly, shoulders shaking. Trahearne feels absolutely terrible that he is crying again, and he reaches out—but then pauses with his hand hovering a few inches away. He is unsure if it would be welcome.</p><p>Laranthir looks exhausted. “Please just take him home with you,” he says. “Let him pet a cat that <em>isn’t</em> half feral, and put some food in him. Don’t listen to anything that comes out of his mouth. And for Pale Mother’s sake—” He gestures towards Roza, widely and deliberately.</p><p>Roza is busy swiping at his eyes with Trahearne’s sweater. “I can hear you,” he mumbles piteously.</p><p>Trahearne hesitantly offers, “Do you want—”</p><p>Roza stumbles into him. “You’re so embarrassing and big and stupid and smart and pretty,” he bemoans, and starts crying again.</p><p>Trahearne enfolds him in an embrace automatically—although he is stuck on <em>pretty</em>—rubbing at his back in slow, soothing movements. He fits perfectly in his arms, he tries not to notice. “There, there. It is very late, and you are very tired.”</p><p>“And a book fell on me earlier,” Roza adds in a pitchy whine.</p><p>“And… that. Laranthir, I think I’ve got it from here. Thank you for all your help.”</p><p>Laranthir lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Thorns, I do not get paid enough for this. Goodnight, Trahearne. Roza, I’m leaving.”</p><p>He extends an arm expectantly. Trahearne is thoroughly puzzled for a moment—until Roza breaks away from him, trundles over, and carefully gives <em>Laranthir</em> the reciprocal hug Trahearne has been missing out on all night. He stares.</p><p>Laranthir meets his eye through Roza’s branches. “Give it a few months,” he says. “Say hello to him every time he shows up on your porch, put some food out for him, and eventually he will warm up to you.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck off,” Roza mutters. He pushes him away with an arch sniff—only slightly ruined by everything else about his current presentation, including but not limited to the monstrously overlarge brown sweater—and stalks past Trahearne with his head held high. “Is that your car?”</p><p>Trahearne looks. “Oh, no. See the green one over there, with the slight dent in its side?”</p><p>Roza stares. Laranthir smiles, giving them a cheerful wave. “Have fun, you two. Don’t stay up too late, and I had better not see you again anytime soon.”</p><p>He leaves. Roza is still staring at Trahearne’s car.</p><p>Trahearne allows himself to take some offense before brushing the reaction off. He goes over to unlock it, then opens the passenger door. “Get in,” he says.</p><p>The drive home is silent, minus the steady rumble of the engine. Trahearne glances at Roza a few minutes in, and finds him leaning into his seatbelt, eyes closed. His chest twinges—he looks exhausted. Whether he truly is asleep or simply trying to get there, Trahearne decides not to bother him.</p><p>Roza stirs when he cuts the engine, blinking blearily before glancing around with heavy black eyes. Trahearne gets out silently, coming around the front to open the door for him.</p><p>Roza tries to get up, but stops himself with a disoriented scowl. Trahearne presses his lips together to hide a smile. “Your seatbelt,” he points out.</p><p>“Oh.” Roza fumbles with it before all but falling out of the car. Trahearne catches him, ignoring the little thrill of excitement he gets from having him in his arms again. This night is the most he has touched Roza in the entire month they’ve known each other. Not that he was thinking about that on the entire ride home or anything. “Mulch, sorry. Sorry, I just woke up. Is that your house? It’s very pretty.”</p><p>“Thank you. And I do not mind.” Trahearne leads him to the front door, steadying him against a wall so he does not fall over before unlocking it. “I apologize in advance for Maddy and Leo. They can make quite a ruckus.”</p><p>Surely enough, the moment he opens the door, the air is filled with the sound of feline wailing. Roza’s confused reply quickly morphs into a small, touched gasp.</p><p>“Oh.” He slowly drops to the floor in a pile of crumpled black clothes. Maddy rubs against him, arching her spine, and his face melts. “<em>Hello</em>, precious thing. Oh, there are <em>two</em> of you. Hello, I am here now. Did Trahearne leave you all alone? The audacity...”</p><p>Trahearne leaves him there with the cats (after snapping a quick picture on his phone, because he cannot help himself) and goes to the kitchen. A glance at the oven clock as he dumps his bag on the counter tells him it’s after one in the morning—they should really be getting to bed. “Do you want food?” he calls out just in case.</p><p>“I would rather sleep.” Roza comes up from behind him, yawning. To Trahearne’s great amusement, Maddy is sticking out of his arms. “Excuse me. Do you have… a couch?”</p><p>Trahearne has two couches. “I have multiple,” he replies. “You just passed them, in fact.”</p><p>Roza glances behind him. “Oh.” He sounds surprised. “So I did.”</p><p>“I also have a guest bedroom.” Trahearne gently extricates his cat from his grasp, since she is beginning to get fussy and Roza seems too tired to notice. “There we go. Bathroom is upstairs, first door on the left. The spare toothbrushes are in the cupboard, and the guest room is the door across from it. I’ll fetch you some clothes to sleep in.”</p><p>“Do you have people over often, Professor?” A jaw-breaking yawn ruins Roza’s attempt at playfulness. “Oh, excuse me. I’ll… go. Goodnight, precious little princess.” This is said to Maddy, in a voice that is about two octaves higher than usual. “You are so <em>beautiful</em>. I will bring cat treats just for you and your friend next time, alright?”</p><p>He staggers up the stairs. Trahearne exchanges a one-sided glance of amusement with his cats. “I think we’ve found a weakness,” he tells them.</p><p>He puts his things away before heading upstairs himself to look for a spare set of night clothes that is small enough for Roza to wear. Caithe usually brings her own, so he does not have anything that would fit him properly. He finally decides on a loose cotton shirt—with long sleeves, since Roza seems the type—and grey joggers that have a tie at the waist.</p><p>He is exiting the room when the bathroom door opens, and a glowing white, black, and brown form stumbles into him. Trahearne steadies him automatically, grasping him by the shoulders.</p><p>“Oh.” Roza blinks up at him. His glow pulses brightly. “Hi.”</p><p>He is so close. Again. Pale Mother, Trahearne is really being tested by fate tonight. “Hi,” he returns inanely.</p><p>Roza giggles at him—<em>giggles.</em> His hand presses against Trahearne’s chest, fingers uncurling to flatten out. The touch is cool, but it feels as if it triggers all of his synapses to fire at once, arcing through his mind like lightning.</p><p>“You’re, um,” Roza mumbles. He ducks his head. “Um.”</p><p>And it has been a long night. The air is still and quiet. It is as if they are the only two beings alive in a suspended plane of existence. It is late, and they are both tired, but Trahearne is not blind, nor truly <em>that</em> dense. He covers Roza’s hand with his own, slowly.</p><p>“I’ve left you a change of clothes on the bed,” he says to widening eyes. “You should get some sleep, Roza. I don’t have a class until later tomorrow, so what time do you want me to wake you up?”</p><p>Roza’s throat clicks as he swallows. He is silent for a long minute, before he finally answers, “Eight.”</p><p>“Eight it is.” Trahearne gives him a small smile. “Goodnight, Roza. Sleep well.”</p><p>He squeezes the hand underneath his before detaching himself, turning around, and walking away. Whatever this is, they can figure it out later. When they are both themselves, when their bodies are well-fed and their minds are as rested and recovered as they can be.</p><p>Later.</p><p>Roza stares after him as he leaves; a dark, solitary figure standing still and silent in the hallway.</p><p>~*~</p><p>The next morning, it feels as if it all didn’t happen.</p><p>That isn’t quite true. It feels distant, as if it is some remembered dream, there laid out on the floor of Trahearne’s mind for him to see, but not quite substantial enough for him to grasp at it. He looks at it, turns it over to consider from a fresh angle, and rolls over to glance at the time.</p><p>It is almost a quarter past eight. Trahearne winces, gently pushing Leo—the reason he is awake in the first place—off his head before getting out of bed. He stumbles out the door, heading for the guest bedroom. Hopefully, Roza is not too inconvenienced by the small delay.</p><p>“Roza?” he calls, rapping on the door with the back of two fingers before opening it. “Good morning. Are you up?”</p><p>“Mm?” The pile of crinkled blankets on the bed shifts. A pair of blinking black dots peer at him from their midst. They squint. “What the… fuck?”</p><p>Trahearne suppresses a smile. He supposes he has collected yet another stray cat, and his name is Roza. “You’re at my place, remember? It’s a quarter past eight. I’m making breakfast for us and the cats, if you want some. Feel free to use the shower.”</p><p>“<em>Meeee</em>,” screams Maddy.</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Eirwen,” Roza mutters. He rolls over so his back is to the door.</p><p>Trahearne leaves him to sort himself out. He brushes his teeth, feeds the cats, and finally tosses some mushrooms, sausages, and tomato slices together in a frying pan for himself and Roza to have for breakfast. He’ll crack the eggs fresh.</p><p>Roza comes down after a few minutes, traipsing up to the island counter with a gait that is as careless as it is somehow graceful. Trahearne glances over at him and nearly drops his pan on his foot.</p><p>“Morning, Professor Nest-head. What are we having?” Roza slides his bottom half over a counter stool, which means his top half temporarily dips down. Trahearne’s shirt—Pale Mother, he is wearing <em>Trahearne’s </em>shirt, and why last night him hadn’t processed that in advance and saved him this entire non-heart attack he does not know, but he blames him for it regardless—dips down as well, providing an ample, if disappointingly brief, glimpse of what is underneath it.</p><p>“See for yourself.” Trahearne dislodges the contents of his frying pan onto two plates. Roza pokes his head out in interest. “Do you want an egg?”</p><p>“Mm. Yes, please.” Roza tugs a plate towards himself with one long finger. He rolls the sleeves of his borrowed shirt up past his forearms before grabbing one of the forks that are lying nearby. Trahearne most definitely does not stare at the expanse of smooth, silver leaves he reveals, nor does he stare at the way the shirt’s wide neckline slides to expose a shoulder. Eggs. He needs to make eggs.</p><p>He ruins the first one when he cracks it and half the shell falls into the bowl. Too much pressure. <em>Get yourself together, Firstborn</em>, he scolds internally.</p><p>“I would offer to help, but I’m absolutely fucking starving.” Roza violently spears a sausage with his fork and shoves it into his mouth. He holds up a hand over it as he chews. “<em>Fuck</em> me that is good. I apologize for my terrible table manners—they only cease to exist in the morning, I swear.”</p><p>Does he only speak like <em>that</em> in the morning too? “No, it’s fine,” Trahearne manages to get out somehow. He needs to—face away. Now. He clears his throat. “I’m glad you like my cooking.”</p><p>“You’re a damned wizard, you are. Oh hello, sweet thing. Can she have some?”</p><p>Trahearne risks a glance back to see Maddy, suddenly up on the counter and sniffing at Roza’s plate in the way she does before she grabs a piece of food and makes off halfway across the house with it.</p><p>“I suppose she can have a little bit,” Trahearne allows. “Then it is <em>off</em> the counter. Do you hear me? <em>Off</em>.”</p><p>Maddy completely ignores him. “<em>Marowrow</em>,” she says to Roza.</p><p>He breaks off a bit of a sausage and feeds it to her. “There you go, sweet thing,” he murmurs as she licks it off his fingertips. “The rest is for us, unfortunately—we are very hungry.”</p><p>Trahearne privately wonders what happened to ‘precious little princess,’ and if he can make it pop up again.</p><p>“You know, ah,” he says as he finally finishes with the eggs and flops them onto their plates, “You had a very… special, emotionally touching moment with the cats last night. It was quite something, actually—I was very deeply moved. Do you remember?”</p><p>“I remember no such thing happening.” Roza denies. He points his fork, regarding Trahearne through lidded eyes. “And neither do you, if you know what is good for you.”</p><p>“Is that so?” He cannot help but be amused at that. “Do tell me what will happen if I do. I am oh so curious.”</p><p>Roza squints at his playful smile. He seems to be considering something as he munches on a tomato slice. Trahearne is briefly worried—he has heard secondhand accounts of his rather dramatic sibling rivalry with Canach. However, all Roza finally decides on is, “Nobody will believe you.”</p><p>“Perhaps.” Trahearne makes a considering expression. He helps himself to a generous bite of food before adding, “They may believe the picture I took, however.”</p><p>Roza’s eyes widen. “You did not.”</p><p>“I did.” Trahearne smiles. It is a little smug—he cannot help it. Roza has had one up over him, knowingly or not, for weeks. Months, even, if he counts the glances he tried not to steal before they even officially met. It feels good to have the upper hand for once. “It is rather adorable, actually. Laranthir would so love to see it.”</p><p>“You will <em>not</em> send it to him.” Roza makes a threatening gesture with his fork. The bit of egg on the end wiggles menacingly. “I am serious, Trahearne. If you do, I will… I will get cat fur all over your papers, and you will have to explain it to your students. I can do it. I have a stash.”</p><p>Trahearne somehow doesn’t doubt that. “Alright, alright.” He chuckles and holds up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “You have defeated me, tiny terror. I will keep my scandalous photograph to myself.”</p><p>Roza’s pattern flares lavender. Trahearne shovels food into his mouth to mask his smile. “<em>What</em> did you just call me?” Roza squeaks. “You take that back! This instant!”</p><p>“I am merely stating what I see before me.” Trahearne hides behind his hand. “I wish I had taken a picture of you in my sweater last night, actually. It utterly dwarfed you.”</p><p>“Your…” Roza trails off and glances away. His cheeks turn pale gold, and Trahearne notes it with a curious interest. Is it out of embarrassment? Something else?</p><p>“Roza,” he begins.</p><p>“Professor.” Roza flattens a twig sticking out of his head. “Trahearne. I, ah. Did not thank you for last night.”</p><p>“It is not necessary,” Trahearne starts to object, but Roza shakes his head, holding up a hand to stop him.</p><p>“It is,” he says firmly. “No matter how polite you were about it, you truly did go out of your way to help me. I will ever be grateful.”</p><p>His gaze falls. “I… know I did not express a similar sentiment last night,” he continues in a lower tone. “It was late, and sometimes, especially after I have… an episode, it is difficult for me to think rationally. I will thank you to not pay heed to what I was saying. I am trying to get better with my thoughts.”</p><p>“I appreciate your openness and honesty,” Trahearne replies. He lays his free hand, palm up, on the counter. It is an offering; Roza can make of it what he wants. “I know these things can be difficult, Roza. If you ever need me, I am here. I want to be here.”</p><p>Roza looks at him, then at his outstretched hand. He does nothing for a second, and then slowly, he slides his fingers over it.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says quietly.</p><p>Now is probably not a good time to question him about the “no dating” thing. Trahearne would like answers, but he does not want to push, nor does he want to make Roza uncomfortable. He is debating on how to transition from such a serious conversation topic when Roza takes the step for him.</p><p>“I took the morning off.” The side of his mouth tips upwards. “I wasn’t going to, but Kas texted me and bullied me into it. She is… good for me. My friends are all too good for me. I mean—they are good. Yes.”</p><p>He nods to himself, once. “Oh, and she grabbed Eirwen, so do not worry about her.” He flutters a hand dismissively. “Mesmers, you know.”</p><p>Trahearne does not, in fact, know, but he supposes “mesmers” is a sufficient enough explanation for anything. “That is good,” he says.</p><p>They finish eating, and Trahearne waves Roza off helping him with the dishes so he can go upstairs and shower. “It will help somewhat with wearing the same clothes as yesterday,” he points out, which Roza grimaces at, but nods in acknowledgment.</p><p>He returns looking far more put together than he has any right to—Trahearne blames the expensive shirt and belt—and they have a quick talk before deciding to travel to the university together. Then Roza can be reunited with his car, and they can proceed about their day as normal.</p><p>Before they leave, Roza points out with some puzzlement that Trahearne doesn’t have his phone, which prompts Trahearne to tell him that he usually keeps it off and sometimes forgets to bring it with him at all, which then prompts Roza to comment that he should probably check it, which means that he does, which means he finally sees the seventeen missed text messages and three missed calls from Laranthir. Whoops.</p><p>Roza calls their dear mutual friend on the drive to the university. He starts the conversation with, “Hello, busybody,” and ends it with “Go to fucking sleep,” so Trahearne can only assume it goes well on Laranthir’s end.</p><p>Roza spends the rest of the ride politely insulting Trahearne’s car, followed by his fashion sense, his texting speed, and the shape of his bathroom mirror. A month ago, it would have bothered him. Except now he thinks about how Roza had fallen asleep in this very car the night before, how he had nosed into that drab brown sweater, how he always waits nowadays for Trahearne to finish typing before he replies, and how he had picked the purple toothbrush, of all colours, and set it neatly on the bathroom counter away from the others when he had finished with it.</p><p>He finds he does not mind.</p><p>~*~</p><p>If he thought that things would become easier to figure out from then on, he was utterly and unfortunately wrong.</p><p>At least one easily identifiable change over the following weeks is that Roza is more comfortable with him, both physically and verbally. Frankly, it is quite a rousing feeling for Trahearne to be talking to him as usual, and perhaps see a smile or hear a word he wouldn’t have before. It gives him a special little thrill—now he is accepted beyond Roza’s walls. Now he is welcome.</p><p>He just wants to know… in what <em>way</em> he is welcome. Is he wrong to see interest in Roza’s behaviour? Should he try to stifle his own?</p><p>Laranthir, on one of his ill-advised lunchtime visits, does not seem to have any sympathy for his plight. Trahearne is feeling rather bereaved about it.</p><p>“Let me try to understand this,” Laranthir is saying, hand outstretched in a delicately angled way Trahearne now recognizes from one haughty necromancer, “You practically carried him over to your house, gave him your <em>clothing</em> to wear, flirted with him, and now you are asking me whether <em>he</em> likes <em>you</em>?”</p><p>Trahearne thinks that is rather besides the point. “I did not flirt with him!” he protests irrelevantly.</p><p>Laranthir gives him a look. “Do you want to hear Roza’s side of things?” he asks. Trahearne straightens up in attention.</p><p>“Yes, that is exactly what I am asking,” he says eagerly. “Did he say anything to you?”</p><p>“Oh, by the Pale Tree.” Laranthir rolls his eyes. When had he started doing that? “No, Trahearne, he said nothing to me. But put yourself in his position. You are friends with this person, yes? And then one day you have a severe emotional outburst which results in him taking you over to his house, caring for you, feeding you, putting you to bed, and letting you play with his cats. You have never so much as seen his car before. This shift in your relationship is very sudden and unexpected. Would you immediately know if your feelings for him changed, and if they did, would you tell him?”</p><p>“Yes,” says Trahearne, because it would make things a lot simpler for his poor, overworked brain.</p><p>Laranthir rubs at his temples. “Just talk to him,” he says after a long-suffering minute.</p><p>Trahearne decides not to do that, choosing instead to suffer in silence like a particularly stubborn martyr. If he does not know for certain, he thinks to himself, he can neither confirm nor deny the possibility of anything from either his or Roza’s perspective. Yes, that makes perfect sense.</p><p>“My dear Professor,” Roza says one day as he leans his entire torso across their table, “Do you like my new necklace? I… thought of you when I saw it, so I bought it. I do not usually purchase things on impulse—it is quite thrilling!”</p><p>Trahearne looks at his necklace (and perhaps also some more of his body, since it is in the way). It is a thin silver chain, with a little charm in the shape of a writing quill dipped in ink dangling against Roza’s fingertips.</p><p>“It is quite charming,” he says, trying to ignore the words <em>my</em> <em>dear Professor</em> ringing strident in his mind. He only notices the accidental pun when Roza ducks his head and giggles.</p><p>“That had better not have been a pun,” he murmurs. Still, he does not seem to mind.</p><p>On another occasion that Trahearne remembers with—ironically—startling clarity, Roza had apparently gotten a bit tipsy.</p><p>
  <em>And I don’t like them bcuz the cut is terrible and makes me look ugly and flat like an empty pillowcase!!! btu kas is obscene with them and it’s the biggest fight weve ever had. Ive never fought with her before actually </em>
</p><p>A second later: <em>OBSESSED**** damn phone</em></p><p>Trahearne is trying his best to be genuinely sympathetic. The string of colourful emojis Roza is using to punctuate each sentence makes it difficult. He types, <em>I’ve never seen you text in this style before. It’s quite something.</em></p><p><em>I can switch</em>, is all Roza replies.</p><p>Trahearne stares at those three words for longer than he cares to admit. Then he knocks the side of his head with his palm a few times. Out, damned thoughts.</p><p>His phone buzzes.  <em>Ok where is ur kasmire advice!!! Ur supposed 2 b old and wise</em></p><p>
  <em>KASMEER***** U HAD BETTER SPELL HER NAME CORRECTLY STUPID PHONE</em>
</p><p>Trahearne is trying his best not to laugh. He truly is. He types out, <em>Have you tried contemplating the fact that your friendship with her is of high enough intrinsic value that a simple dispute about fashion is likely not going to damage it?</em></p><p>Roza replies with, <em>??????</em></p><p>Pale Mother bless the inebriated. <em>She still likes you</em>, Trahearne rephrases.</p><p>Roza replies, two minutes later, with several emojis of a sylvari crying.</p><p>
  <em>Thank u troubadour ur my best friend ever ur always there fro me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>trahene</em>
</p><p>
  <em>traherbe</em>
</p><p>
  <em>t r a he rna</em>
</p><p>Trahearne smiles softly. He slowly taps out a reply to intercept the next furious grey dots that pop up, since he has a suspicion this could go on for a while.</p><p>
  <em>You are very welcome, my dear Roza.</em>
</p><p>~*~</p><p>After a long period of avoidance due to the inherent risk involved, Trahearne tries to bring the situation up with Caithe.</p><p><em>“You are interested in someone?!”</em> is her immediate response. He winces, holding his phone away from his ear.</p><p>“I am not! Perhaps. I do not know. I am interested in… the possibility of him, shall we say. How do I know if he is interested in the possibility of me?”</p><p><em>“Hm.”</em> Caithe’s pause is short. <em>“Does he give you bedroom eyes?”</em></p><p>Trahearne thinks about it with a thoughtful frown that draws together the protrusions on his forehead. “I have not seen him do so,” he says uncertainly.</p><p>
  <em>“That does particularly mean anything. You do not see much, Brother. Well, have you tried asking him?”</em>
</p><p>Trahearne hangs up the call shortly afterwards. When had her advice gotten as rational as his? She really is growing and developing as a person. It is supremely unhelpful.</p><p>Finally, he gives in to peer pressure and decides to text Roza about it. He just needs to ask one question. It should be easy enough—he texts Roza on a daily basis (He has recently been pointed out something called a ‘text-to-speech’ by one of his students, and it has proven quite helpful. Although it misunderstands him at times, it provides a remarkably quick method of communication during the day. Anyways. Cowardice).</p><p><em>I am curious about something</em>, he taps out with his index finger after stalling for an abominable amount of time.</p><p>The reply comes within a minute. <em>Curiosity resurrected the charr, Professor. What can I help you with? ;)</em></p><p>Trahearne squints at the… emojicon (is that what they are called?). Roza has been using those more often as of late. This one, if he turns his phone on its side, looks like a little face that is winking.</p><p>He had considered how to word his question for… perhaps an entire week or two. Still, he finds himself backspacing now—character by character—to reword it a few times over. ‘Do you truly not date at all?’ sounds confrontational, and ‘I was wondering why you do not date,’ is suspiciously innocuous. He finally sends: <em>I was curious about your “no dating” rule.</em></p><p><em>Oh</em>, Roza replies.</p><p>The three dots appear, disappear, and reappear intermittently over a period of a few minutes. Trahearne waits patiently, sipping at his tea and trying to tell himself that no matter the answer, he will respect it and take it in stride. Roza is a good friend to have—a very good one, in fact. He is also an interesting person, as well as incredibly intelligent, attractive, and—thorns, his <em>voice</em> sometimes when he says something teasingly—</p><p>Trahearne lifts his mouth from his mug to clear his throat, and then goes back to slurping at his tea.</p><p>Roza’s reply finally comes. Trahearne makes himself read it slowly.</p><p>
  <em>It isn’t a rule more than it is a general guideline, if I’m being honest. I am usually not comfortable with being the object of someone’s attraction; I don’t like being objectified. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable if I am talking to a stranger, but the entire time we are speaking I am aware that the only thought inside their head is that they want to fuck me.</em>
</p><p>That… make sense. It also leaves a few noticeable gaps to wiggle and squeeze through. Trahearne peers at “usually” for longer than he would like to admit. Does that imply an exception exists?</p><p><em>Not all dates usually turn sexual so quickly</em>, he types back. <em>It is true that young sylvari tend to be promiscuous and throw themselves into things, but there are also those who like to take it slowly.</em></p><p><em>Just sylvari?</em> Roza returns. <em>You should see how grabby humans are at times. Trust me, I’m friends with two.</em></p><p>Trahearne smiles. <em>Humans tend to be very physical, yes. Charr do as well, although from my experience, they are far more affectionate early on.</em></p><p>The reply to that comes quickly. <em>You’ve fucked a charr???</em></p><p>Trahearne lets out a startled laugh, not expecting that. He presses his fingers to his mouth and taps out, <em>I have not, as such</em>. <em>But I have done my share of social studies.</em></p><p><em>Pity</em>.<em> I was about to interrogate you.</em></p><p>Trahearne shakes his head to himself, still smiling. <em>Your academic curiosity is commendable, as always.</em></p><p>
  <em>I am ever a scholar. Now it is my turn to have a question for you.</em>
</p><p>Trahearne’s inquiry isn’t quite fulfilled, but he supposes that is fair. <em>What is it?</em></p><p>
  <em>Have you ever been in love?</em>
</p><p>He stares at the single, standalone sentence for longer than he should. He allows himself to dwell on why. On whom?</p><p><em>Yes</em>, he texts back simply.</p><p><em>What is it like?</em> Roza asks.</p><p>What <em>is</em> it like, indeed. That is the thousand gold question. Trahearne stares up at his ceiling as he considers how to answer. He has been trying to figure that out for himself. How does he feel about Roza—<em>truly</em> feel? Is he like a fresh sapling with a crush? Or do his desires run deeper than that?</p><p>He eventually types out: <em>It is… a longing. A longing to be with them, to make them happy. Love is about selflessness, not selfishness.</em></p><p><em>I… see</em>, is what Roza replies with.</p><p>Then, <em>I can do dramatic ellipses too.</em></p><p>Trahearne laughs. It isn’t terribly funny.</p><p>He is assailed by a fierce, intense sense of… <em>want</em>. He wants Roza to be here with him, curled up snugly next to him and laughing at his terrible jokes the way Trahearne laughs at his. He wants to hear that sound more than anything right now. He loves Roza’s laugh—his real one—the way it starts small and buried, as if he is suppressing it, and then how it spills and bubbles out of him, as unstoppable a force of nature as the rest of him. Roza always looks so surprised after he laughs. Trahearne wishes he didn’t. He wishes it were something he was used to experiencing every single day.</p><p><em>Call me</em>, he texts simply.</p><p>His phone rings two seconds later. He answers it immediately.</p><p>“<em>Trahearne,” </em>Roza says. It may just be wishful thinking, but he sounds wistful.</p><p>Trahearne smiles. “Tell me about your day,” he requests, even if Roza has done just that a few hours before.</p><p>Roza laughs.</p><p>~*~</p><p>It is the end of the semester already.</p><p>Trahearne, as usual, finds himself surprised at how fast time flew by. One moment he is introducing himself to wide-eyed first-years in his Introduction to Necrology class, and the next he pretending to watch over them during their final exams. It is a little sad to see the ones who only took it as an elective leave the department—he will miss them.</p><p>“Trahearne!” a cheerful voice booms, startling him out of his thoughts. “Don’t tell me your mind is in Orr again, my friend. I’m telling you, little sylvari, he gets so distracted sometimes!”</p><p>Nikolai, the owner of the voice and the coach of university’s swim team, laughs. Roza looks at them as if they are something particularly unsightly pasted to the bottom of his two hundred gold shoes (Trahearne is merely guessing at the price. He doesn’t dare ask).</p><p>“I hadn’t noticed,” he replies thinly. “He does not get distracted around me.”</p><p>Pale Mother knows <em>that</em> is not true. “Apologies, Nikolai,” Trahearne says with a remorseful smile. “I was lost along a winding path of thoughts. What were you saying?”</p><p>“I was saying that we’re all rooting for you!” Nikolai gestures to the rest of the few people scattered around the gymnasium. Not a lot of staff come to these end of year gatherings, and truthfully, Trahearne does not blame them. But Roza has never been to one before, and he has managed to coerce him into coming on the sole condition that he accompany him.</p><p>“You have been single for the entire time I have known you, Trahearne,” Nikolai continues, tapping the side of their nose with one thick finger and winking. “This year is the summer you put yourself out there!”</p><p>“I do not think he needs to put himself out there.” Roza throws back before Trahearne can do anything more than open his mouth. He shoots Nikolai a withering look. “Sometimes, people can be <em>quite</em> satisfied with the relationships they already have.”</p><p>“Ah, but you do not know how long this one has been by himself, little sylvari.” The norn either does not notice or chooses not to respond to Roza’s hostility. “He just needs someone to ruffle his button-up sweaters, right? Haha!”</p><p>Another booming laugh. Trahearne smiles—he likes Nikolai, despite their tendency to overemphasize certain… qualities about people. They are large, friendly, and generally easy-going, which makes them a favourite amongst student and faculty alike.</p><p>Roza bristles. Trahearne lightly touches his back, and when he glances up, sends him a calming smile to reassure him it is alright. He relaxes somewhat, although his spine maintains its rigidity.</p><p>“I appreciate your enthusiasm, my friend, but Roza is right. I’m not really looking to meet someone new anymore.”</p><p>Roza shoots him a curious look. Nikolai sighs and affects a dramatic pout.</p><p>“Ah, that is too bad. You could have let me have my fun, Trahearne. Oh well! Plenty of other people to pair up. Bear’s testicles, do you know when the last time Forgal went on a date was? He’s an ornery old coot, but I am sure even <em>he</em> can find someone…”</p><p>Nikolai rambles on, and eventually, Trahearne manages to extricate himself and Roza from their—although well-meaning—overbearingness. He could practically feel Roza becoming more and more tense as the interaction went on.</p><p>“I am regretting letting you talk me into this,” Roza murmurs to him as they venture over to the table laden with finger food. “I didn’t know that you would—”</p><p>He gives Trahearne a brief onceover, then breaks off. “Never mind,” he mutters. He shoves a cracker into his mouth and munches on it grouchily.</p><p>Trahearne leans into him. “Come now, it is not that bad,” he cajoles. “The food is good. And I think someone snuck in alcohol, although do not tell Almorra.”</p><p>“It is just that—I never thought you would be fashion-conscious,” Roza bursts suddenly, in a pitchy tone that suggests that he has firsthand awareness of the fruit juice being spiked. He sticks his hand out into an angular triangle, gesturing ambiguously but with purpose. “You always wear a—a sack cloth to work! You have an entire wardrobe full of sack cloths.”</p><p>Trahearne glances down at himself, a little offended. He is wearing traditional sylvari ferns, picked from the corner of his wardrobe he ventures into sometimes for formal occasions. They are somewhat less… covering than cloth would be, but he feels comfortable in them.</p><p>“What is wrong with my clothes?” he asks. “I actually took some of your advice to heart, you know. I thought you would appreciate it.”</p><p>“I am not going to ogle you,” Roza snaps.</p><p>Trahearne blinks at him. What? “What?”</p><p>“I am just saying…” Roza lets out a frustrated huff. “People are. Staring at you. And you are shy! You are a shy person who does not talk to people. They should leave you alone. And not stare.”</p><p>“Oh.” Bless his heart. Is that why he is acting so prickly? Trahearne smiles and cups his shoulder. “Roza, it is very sweet of you to be concerned. But I assure you, I am quite comfortable with everyone here. I have been with the university for over a decade.”</p><p>That does not seem to reassure Roza. He works his jaw back and forth, as if readying himself to continue complaining, but eventually just jerks out a grudging nod.</p><p>Trahearne squeezes his arm. “Come, mingle with me. I think I see Sieran over there—let us go say hello.”</p><p>“Who?” Roza frowns in her direction. “Oh, mulch, the <em>librarian?</em> Trahearne, I am telling you she hates me. I think she is jealous because Harley likes me better than her.”</p><p>Trahearne, who has talked to Sieran about that very issue, privately thinks it is because Roza had called her a ‘hyperactive, yammering piece of lettuce who is more likely to eat the books than keep them safe,’ but he does not say that out loud. He does steer his smaller companion in front of himself as they make their way over. Humdrum end of year parties are the <em>perfect</em> time for forced apologies.</p><p>An hour later, and Roza has offered Sieran an extremely begrudging apology, glared at anyone who so much as drifted within six feet of Trahearne, and overall stuck to his side like a particularly bad-tempered, orphaned sylvan hound. It is actually quite entertaining, although Trahearne should probably not be thinking that.</p><p>The gathering is coming to an end. Roza and Trahearne are at the back of the gymnasium near the far wall, certainly not gossiping nor making smart comments about people’s outfits. Although Roza has been quiet for the past few minutes, as if he is contemplating something.</p><p>“Why aren’t you looking?” he mumbles now, gaze firmly planted to the floor.</p><p>“Hm?” Trahearne glances over automatically. “I am looking. At what?”</p><p>He has certainly taken the time to look at <em>Roza</em>. He didn’t know black shirts—blouses?—could shimmer like that. Trahearne does not think he is the only one who has attracted all the stares, actually—it is a rather bewitching effect.</p><p>“Not like that.” Roza reaches up to squeeze one of his lower branches—a sign that he is nervous. “You told that big, boring, loud norn earlier that you weren’t looking to meet anyone anymore. Which implies you were before. So why did you stop? Did you… find someone?”</p><p>Oh. That prompts a rather… complicated answer. Trahearne stalls for time. “Nikolai is far from boring, my dear Roza. You should give them a chance.”</p><p>Roza frowns. “I would if they were less…” he starts, then stops. “Never mind. You’re avoiding the question.”</p><p>“And you have been acting like someone died in your expensive shoes all evening.” Trahearne crosses his arms. “Is there a particular reason for that? I have to say, sullenness does not suit you.”</p><p>Roza looks startled. “I,” he begins.</p><p>Then his expression falls lax. “It has been a bad day,” he says quietly. “Actually, it has been a bad week. I… have been bothered by something. I am sorry if it is affecting you, Trahearne. That is the very last thing I want.”</p><p>Trahearne touches a hand to his arm, concerned. “Did something happen?”</p><p>Roza gives him a look that is a mixture between pained and amused. “Nothing happened. That is… the crux of the matter, truly. Answer my question, and I may elaborate further.”</p><p>“Very well.” Trahearne leans against the wall. He supposes he has half an answer by this point, and he can cobble the rest together as he goes. “I <em>was</em> looking, around the time when I first met you. And then I found that I was not feeling… unfulfilled, shall we say. So I stopped.”</p><p>Roza glances up at him, and then away. “So you didn’t find anyone.”</p><p>Thorns and thrice-damned brambles. Trahearne gnaws the inside of his lip, at war with himself. Should he? It is the end of the year. They may not see each other again for… a while.</p><p>He closes his eyes. And what if he could have this every day? What if Roza could visit him over the summer, or even stay over at his place now and again? And their cats could meet each other. It is a careful process, Trahearne knows, but they would do it with the utmost care. And then, perhaps, Roza could move in, and they could <em>live</em> with each other, and sleep in the same bed, and Trahearne could make him food every day and make sure he eats it, because one cup of tea in the morning is not enough by <em>far</em> for a sylvari to be healthy, and… and…</p><p>He swallows. “I found you,” he says hoarsely.</p><p>He immediately clears his throat. Here he is, practically croaking out a confession with a voice like wet bread. Well, there goes all of his courage, fleeing down deep into the soil.</p><p>Roza’s eyes widen. “You… did,” he says back. Gratifyingly, his voice breaks.</p><p>If Laranthir were here, he would be laughing at the both of them. Trahearne says, “Roza—”</p><p>“We should—go home.” Roza looks away once more. “I brought my things, this time. Just in case. You would say yes. To… me staying at your house again.”</p><p>“Oh,” says Trahearne. He had not expected that. “Alright then.”</p><p>He stretches with a long wince, and makes to leave. Roza catches his arm.</p><p>“Is that—a yes?” he asks.</p><p>Trahearne stares at him, stopped in his tracks. “What?”</p><p>Roza huffs. “Is that a yes to me staying at your house, Trahearne! Thorns, you make me feel like an absolute dunce sometimes.”</p><p>“Oh! Of course, if you wish.” Trahearne readjusts Roza’s grip on his arm so it is more comfortable and begins to lead them to the exit. “The cats will be happy to see you again. Do you want dinner, or did you gorge yourself on finger food?”</p><p>Roza’s cheeks turn gold, although Trahearne is not looking at him to see it. “I could eat,” he says shyly.</p><p>Trahearne nods. “Perfect. I hope you don’t mind leftovers.”</p><p>He hears Roza draw in a breath, and then let it out slowly. “I meant… we could go out somewhere. To eat.”</p><p>“I suppose we are dressed for it,” Trahearne acquiesces. “Alright, if you want to. But nowhere too fancy.”</p><p>Roza’s hand on his arm tightens. They are almost out of the gymnasium. “I will pay.”</p><p>That makes Trahearne look at him, if only to frown. “Nonsense. I am paying, or we split.”</p><p>Roza makes an annoyed noise. “I want to take you to—I mean, we could go somewhere nice. Actually, I already have somewh—”</p><p>“Trahearne!” Sieran yells at the top of her lungs. Roza’s grip turns near painful for a brief moment, then forcibly relaxes. “Do you have Harley this week? I couldn’t find her at my house!”</p><p>“Oh, for the love of…” Roza mutters under his breath.</p><p>“I have her,” Trahearne calls back, cupping a hand around his mouth so he does not have to holler like a banshee. “I will take her for the summer, don’t worry!” It is probably for the best.</p><p>“Okay, that sounds cherry! Have a nice evening, you two!”</p><p>“Thank you, Sieran. You as well!”</p><p>Trahearne has to raise his voice by the end of their exchange due to Roza practically dragging him out of the gymnasium. He lengthens his stride, easily retaking control of their pace. He thinks he hears Roza make a noise, but when he glances down at him, he is silent.</p><p>It is only when they are strapping themselves into Trahearne’s car—he had picked Roza up earlier, and the plan had been to drop him off as well—that he remembers their conversation earlier.</p><p>“You never told me,” he says.</p><p>Roza snaps his seatbelt into place and stares at him. From the way he wets his lips and the slight widening of his eyes, it is clear he knows exactly what Trahearne is referring to.</p><p>“I, ah,” he says, “Do not know what you are talking about. Apologies.”</p><p>“Roza.” Trahearne leans towards him. “Earlier, you said something was bothering you. What was it?”</p><p>It is difficult to tell only in the slanted light of sunset, and he does not move his head, but Roza’s eyes—shift. Downwards, Trahearne thinks, although he cannot be sure.</p><p>“Um,” Roza says. “I just… I was thinking about you.”</p><p>Trahearne’s breathing stutters for a second. He clears his throat. “What, ah, about me specifically?”</p><p>Roza’s shoulders droop, and he slumps back into his seat. “It is the end of the year. I may not be able to see you again for…” He looks up to give a pained smile. “Well. For a while.”</p><p>That is all? Trahearne ignores the disappointment tugging at his chest. He had hoped… ah well.</p><p>Perhaps they will pick up where they left off in the fall. Perhaps the months apart will only strengthen their relationship. It is nothing to worry about. Trahearne has been desperately trying to push the thought—of not seeing Roza again for <em>months</em>, thorns—to the very back of his mental shelf. It is not working—it feels as if it is instead positioned precariously at the very front, just about ready to fall on him and inflict a world’s worth of pain.</p><p>Roza’s eyes are dark and prudent. “And,” he adds.</p><p>He should not play with Trahearne’s poor old heart like that. “And?” he repeats, not daring to hope.</p><p>Roza looks away. He swallows, and Trahearne watches his throat bob in hues of orange and pink and startling violet.</p><p>He whispers, “You are… something, Trahearne.”</p><p>Trahearne tries a smile. It probably comes out stretched and uncomfortable. “Is that a good thing?”</p><p>Roza lets out a humourless laugh. “‘Is that a good thing,’” he repeats. “Fuck. Yes, it is a good thing. I think.”</p><p>He ducks his head. Fading sunlight warms his branches, turning his violet foliage a brilliant fuchsia. “I didn’t know it was a good thing for a long time,” he continues. “I was scared. I did not know what I was… feeling. Why it was <em>different.</em>”</p><p>Their eyes meet, and the contact is jarring. Roza looks beautiful, caught in the middle of logical complexity and emotion, halfway between silver and the softest gold.</p><p>“Why is it different?” Trahearne asks.</p><p>Roza’s smile is one of defeat. “You are not like my other friends,” he says, and each word sounds like a confession. “You are… amazing. Wondrous. Your heart is made up of the purest gold, and I feel as I am being purged whenever I step into your presence.”</p><p>He drops his head once more and laughs. Trahearne can do nothing—his voice is caged in his throat, fluttering, too timid to fight its way free.</p><p>Roza keeps going. “And you are an impossibility. I can talk to you about anything—<em>anything—</em>longer than I have ever been able to talk to anyone. I can waste hours with you, and it will feel as if not a moment has gone by. Thorns, even if you text like a geriatric old man, I’m still smiling the entire time I await your reply.”</p><p>“Hey,” Trahearne croaks.</p><p>Roza’s beautiful smile widens. “See?” he says teasingly. “Old man.”</p><p>Trahearne shakes his head, but he feels himself smiling as well, and cannot help it. “What are you saying, Roza?” he asks, which is really him taking the coward’s way out once more.</p><p>“I am saying,” Roza answers, “That I would like to… try something. And if you hate me afterwards, you can kick me out of your car and say you never want to see my face again.”</p><p>Trahearne would never do that. “And if I do not?”</p><p>Roza’s eyes curve. “If you do not,” he says, “Then you let me take you out to dinner.”</p><p>Several pieces fall into place at once in Trahearne’s mind. And then, of course, he feels like a complete and utter fool. He feels his mouth fall open—he probably has a decidedly moronic expression on his face—and now even his <em>thoughts</em> are sounding like Roza, by the Tree—</p><p>“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Roza says, and darts forwards to kiss him.</p><p>It is more of a peck, really, and he misjudges the angle—or rather, he misjudges just how short his torso is compared to the distance between them—so in actuality, it is basically just a brush of lips, but then Trahearne reaches forwards, unlatches Roza’s seatbelt, and practically hauls him into his lap.</p><p>Roza looks startled. He opens his mouth to say something—probably something sharp and witty, or even sweet, perhaps, because he does that sometimes—but Trahearne cuts him off with another, far more complete kiss.</p><p>Roza’s lips are soft, shy, and strangely warm. He looks terribly surprised when the kiss finally ends, which in all honesty he has no right to do.</p><p>“Don’t tell me you were aiming for my cheek,” Trahearne says.</p><p>That make Roza laugh. “No,” he denies. His hands slide over Trahearne’s shoulders, slipping underneath his ferns. “Hm, maybe there <em>is</em> a benefit to this outfit. Imagine if you wore sylvari garments all the time. You’d be practically naked.”</p><p>Trahearne arches an eyebrow. “Of course your thoughts would go there.”</p><p>Roza tosses his head loftily. “I am just thinking out loud. I know we both like books a little too much, but <em>you</em> are the sexually repressed one here, not me. Kiss me again.”</p><p>The last sentence is a demand. Trahearne obeys, sliding his hands up over Roza’s legs to pull him close by the waist. Long fingers fold into his foliage, gripping onto him.</p><p>Ten minutes later, Roza finally scoots off his lap with a sigh. “Does this mean you are not kicking me out?” he asks as he flips a rude gesture to the steering wheel.</p><p>“On the contrary. It means you get to keep the purple toothbrush. And… perhaps use it more often.”</p><p>Roza’s eyes widen as he translates that. “You mean…?”</p><p>Trahearne smiles. “I would love to welcome you as a house guest as often as you would like to be one,” he says. “And over time, perhaps—”</p><p>Roza is rapidly slapping his hand over the glove compartment in excitement. “I get to spend more time with the kitty catties!” he bursts out.</p><p>Trahearne stares at him. “The what?”</p><p>“<em>Oh,”</em> Roza croons. He presses his hands to either side of his face, smiling beatifically. “Oh, I have bought so many <em>treats</em> for you, my darlings. Yes. Trahearne, we must go over to your house at once.” The change of his voice from being directed at Trahearne’s—absent—cats to Trahearne himself is depressingly drastic. “I will drop my things off there, as well my cat treats. I took the liberty of buying a few toys as well—I hope you do not mind.”</p><p>Trahearne had thought the large bag in the trunk held his <em>clothing</em>. “Yes, Roza,” he says, resigning himself to his fate.</p><p>And if Roza is smiling to himself the entire ride for a reason that has nothing to do with Trahearne’s cats, well, he does not need to know at all.</p><p>~*~</p><p>
  <em>have you told roza how you felt about him yet??</em>
</p><p>
  <em>trahearne I s2tPT you had better tell him or else. you don’t understand, last time I spoke to him he</em>
</p><p>
  <em>never mind</em>
</p><p>
  <em>if you don’t tell him then I’ll tell him about that one time you got drunk at the end of the semester and cried all over me because one of your students wrote that you were their favourite prof at the bottom of their exam</em>
</p><p>Roza glances over at the coffee table, frowning at the obnoxiously buzzing device with extreme prejudice. Slowly, he picks it up. It is does not have a passcode.</p><p>He reads the messages.</p><p><em>Laranthir,</em> he types out. <em>Chuffed at your new career goal of becoming a vibrator. Perhaps consider that it will not give you the sense of purpose that has been missing from your entire life.</em></p><p>The grey dots appear. Disappear. Roza watches them calmly.</p><p><em>trahearne doesn’t type that fast</em>, Laranthir finally replies.</p><p><em>Astute observation</em>, Roza texts.</p><p>More dots. Then, <em>does he know you have his phone?</em></p><p>Roza glances behind him at Trahearne, who is busy trying to push Harley away from the stovetop while he prepares breakfast. He smiles, endeared.</p><p>
  <em>I won’t go through it, don’t worry. You had better not have told him about ANYTHING we talked about.</em>
</p><p><em>he'll read this later, you know,</em> Laranthir informs him.</p><p>
  <em>Then he will know you are not sleeping like you should be at this hour. Do you want to get lectured by him? Because I can arrange that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>ok, ok. the lengths I go to for the two of you, I swear. your so ungrateful</em>
</p><p><em>You’re*</em>, Roza types back, and lays the phone facedown on the coffee table to ignore.</p><p>“Roza!” Trahearne calls. He sounds desperate. “Please help me. There are three of them, and I only have two arms.”</p><p>Roza is an expert cat-wrangler, and proud of it. He hops off the arm of the couch, grabbing the bag of cat treats hidden behind the cushions.</p><p>“Little demons!” He holds it out in front of himself and shakes it. “Come bother me for food, not him. You will die your natural deaths, instead of being killed by the oven. Yes, there we go.” He drops his voice into a coo as one, then two, then three cats lose interest in Trahearne and prance over. <em>“There</em> we are. I am your favourite, aren’t I? Yes. Yes I am.”</p><p>Trahearne shakes his head with a smile. “We will have ample time to establish that,” he says. “But… you probably will be.”</p><p>Roza goes over to kitchen, climbing on top of the island counter so they are the same height. “As long as I am<em> your</em> favourite, I do not need to be theirs.”</p><p>Trahearne turns around to give him a kiss. “Always,” he promises.</p><p>And Roza does not know what to say to that, because he finds that his mind and his insides are suddenly mush. So he only smiles, and blushes, and watches Trahearne make breakfast.</p><p>He is glad he decided to give Green Sylvari the benefit of the doubt.</p><p>~*~</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>aaand that's it! if you're new to my writing and you liked Roza, consider checking out my "roza" series! where there is a lot more of him and his relationships with other characters ;3;; other than that, as always, please tell me what you think if you liked it! &lt;3</p><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_WJ8gnWU7I">completely unironic end credits song</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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